Manhunt
by JeanAndBilius
Summary: Ron Weasley, now at the height of his powers as one of the best Aurors in the world, is on the cusp of cracking the greatest case of his career, righting a twenty year wrong that has secretly haunted him since his earliest days in the Ministry. But, right at the moment of triumph, he discovers something that threatens to destroy everything he holds dear. Disclaim: All J K Rowling's
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The Moth.**

It was the moth that had caused the tears. He'd been weeding the border in the back garden when he'd come across it. Total accident. Complete surprise. Brushing some of the grasses aside, he'd been stunned by its … unexpectedness.

He remembered this one. What was its name? The Elephant Hawk Moth.

It was a beautiful range of pinks, reds and purples mainly, lying, it seemed, at rest – deep in the grasses, hidden in their gathered green – a shock of beauty to him, in a time of little beauty. Well, at least for him, anyway.

He'd stared at it for a long moment and then the tears just came, slowly dribbling down his cheeks, as he kneeled down on the edge of the border and lawn. God, he must look like he was bloody praying or something! The tears dribbled – it was the only word he could find then – as if he did not want to let them go: inch them out, bit by tiny bit, not too much – he couldn't let himself go – couldn't release himself, not in this world where there was no hope or love or future – just cruelty and lies and all a bloody, great stinking sham. Rubbish, his mother would have thought and told him so in no uncertain terms but she was miles away at The Burrow and he was here, staring down at something in his garden border, something that shocked him by its sudden beauty, surprised him – where? In his heart? What heart? When did he feel things now?

'Dad?'

He hadn't moved. He hadn't noticed her walking down the steps from the back of the house.

'Dad? Mum says dinners's ready and to get that famous behind inside.'

His daughter. His wonderful, amazing, funny, kind, rude, brilliant, infuriating, honest-as-hell daughter. No. There was more beauty in the world. Rosie and Hugo.

'Okay; I'll be right in.' He hadn't moved. She can't, musn't see the tears but … she will know something, anyway. Bloody nosey; intuitive. She'll just know. Just wipe the face clean with your hand and turn and say…

'Yes, fine; I'm done.' He let the grasses slip back into their original place, and moved his hands away, pausing slightly with his right hand as if he was giving a blessing as he'd seen a Muggle priest once give at the end of a wedding they'd attended. Be safe and beautiful there, in the grasses, for me, he thought.

He was facing her now as he knelt and he saw the look on her face.

'I'm fine, okay? Nothing to your mother – she'll only worry. No, don't give me that look, Rosie. Nothing, understand: not - a - bloody – word – or I will be seriously pissed off.'

His daughter said nothing in reply, didn't need to. The half-smile of resignation was enough for him, as he clambered to his feet and followed her inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Dreams?**

He woke up quickly, as if he was coming into consciousness out of nowhere, out of the dark into the light. Except it wasn't light. Still dark; around four, he guessed.

She was in his arms, her back pressed into his front; deep, deep asleep – breathing slowly and evenly… she felt utterly – complete. She seemed to radiate this feeling in the darkness. Who was this woman? Where was his wife? She 'felt' the same; their position in the bed was as it had been for years, like the rising and setting of the sun – expected. Complete. This 'cuckoo' in his bed.

She 'felt' complete. Why didn't he? Why didn't he?

Before the anger he felt had a chance to ignite, he'd fallen asleep.

When he awoke again, he wasn't even sure he had woken before at all. The alarm was beeping and it was light. Before opening his eyes he knew she'd already gone. Nothing pressed against him. The space she'd occupied was like a vacuum now – just empty. Eyes still closed, he reached his hand smoothly out over the mattress cover – cold, no heat. Not even any scent.

What was that Muggle phrase George used? From that Frank Zappa album? Oh yes. 'Elvis has left the building' – or something.

Eyes still closed, in his mind, he pictured a Muggle television announcer, in a sparkling suit, stood before his house, proclaiming for all the world to hear –

'_Hermione Granger-Weasley. The Undersecretary for Justice and Legal Administration has left the building.'_

'_The Undersecretary for Justice and Legal Administration has left the building.'_

'_Hermione Granger-Weasley has left the building.'_

'_Hermione has left the building.'_

'_Hermione has left.'_

Enough. Stop. No more. No more pain. Need to focus on the job. Focus on the job. Especially today.

He opened his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: How it's going to end?**

'Mum left early?'

He nodded in answer as he came into the kitchen, conjuring fresh juice and cereal on to the table as he sat. His movements quick and efficient, he demolished the juice in one swift swallow and began to tear through the cereal.

'Steady, Dad! You'll choke.'

He looked up at Rose, leaning against the kitchen side, sipping her coffee and giving him an appraising look.

'You're not sleeping well, are you? Don't give me the 'Ron Weasley's Hacked Off' look, please, Dad. Did you go to the Healers', like Mum said? No, of course not – stupid, stupid bloody question. Please: you've got to look after yourself. You know, you said you didn't want Mum to worry but – '

Interrupt now, for God's sake, before she's built up broom-breeze. Cereal nearly finished, he held up his right hand in a 'pax' gesture. He looked up again. Enough! Okay? said his eyes. Rosie ignored the look.

'We worry, alright. You've been working so hard on, well, according to the papers, what _aren't_ you trying to solve at the moment and, bloody hell, Dad, even Hugo's noticed.' Hugo's noticed? Must be bad. He noticed Rosie had seemed to falter in her confidence. Looking at the floor now, hugging her cup closer, she still spoke very clearly.

'Are you and Mum okay?'

Why couldn't he speak? That question had certainly surprised him. He'd frozen in eating his cereal, a spoonful halfway on its trip to his mouth. He remembered the look she had given him in the garden the other day. She must have been thinking this for days, weeks… His Rosie: daughter's intuition and an Auror's deduction. The moth came back into his mind. Was it still there? He hoped so. Maybe he'd look later.

'We're fine. No, what's the surprise, young lady!? Don't seem shocked. We are. We're just - both very, very busy at the moment. Okay? You don't believe me?

'Well …' she hesitated, frowning.

'You don't believe me.' He sighed. Suddenly he felt old and tired; not a man, in his forties, at the possible height of his powers and career – just the armour of a man, a strengthened shell, readying again – for battle, the scrabble, the fight; the bludgeoning to the end in the mud of life. Stop. Again: Stop! Keep the dark at bay. 'As I said, nothing to your mother. I'm tired but it'll be great soon, you'll see; I'll get a check-up very soon, I promise and we're very close at work to finishing some key things… so, no need to panic, alright?' He stopped. Rosie looked slightly mollified. Thank God: one battle – partly - won by the 'Great Strategist' – and he hadn't even got out of the bloody door! There would be thousands more, hungry and thirsting for a lovely, juicy piece of him; waiting just for him once he stepped out of his front door. He must reread that part in 'The Lord of the Rings' about the dangers of 'The Road': Bilbo Baggins had it right – it's a dangerous thing stepping out of your front door. Family; home; love – that's what mattered. As long as it was real.

'Dad? Dad!?' Rosie's questions pulled him out of his reverie.

_It has to be real._ This last thought seemed to ring in his mind as he got up from his chair and began to charm the kitchen for cleaning.

'We're fine, Rosie. Right. I'm going. I'll give Uncle Harry your love, as you asked and, yes, I'll ask him about the interview next week, before you remind me.' He paused. 'Oh, and before I forget, Crookshanks has left another 'surprise' on the stairs; I forgot to vanish it. Can you do it, especially before Hugo, goes and –'

'Oh, for Merlin's sake, what the bloody hell!' came a wail from somewhere halfway up the stairs. Ron paused and he and Rosie froze for a moment.

'- gets the 'surprise', probably by not wearing his slippers again.' Ron added. 'Morning, Hugo!' both of them chorused, laughing, as Ron passed the foot of the stairs, heading towards the fireplace.

'Bloody cat! Why does it happen every time!? Stop laughing, Rosie.' Hugo ranted, galumphing into the kitchen, reminding Ron as he looked over his shoulder, at his two amazing children, like a polyjuiced version of himself from over a quarter of century ago. Ron turned fully around, backing slowly now towards the fireplace, observing their banter and play. Stir the pot a little more eh, Ron? Add to the banter? Make some joy?

'It's because he loves you, Hu.' He called, standing by the fireplace, floo powder in hand. Rosie bellowed with laughter and Hugo grinned.

'Har-bloody-har, Dad! Will we see you later?' Rosie was busy handing Hugo a fresh coffee and Hugo was busy starting to make toast the Muggle way but they both paused and looked towards him. Ron stopped just as he was about to step into the fireplace and floo. They shared a smile. Yes, he thought, hold this moment, hold this sight – this is real, this is genuine. This is feeling!

'I love you, too.' He said.

'Yes, I know – but you don't leave bloody 'surprises' on the stairs for me. Or do you?' Hugo smirked.

'Oh, God, Hu – that's disgusting!' giggled Rosie.

Enough. No more. He must go. Pull this loveliness, this humour, fun, silliness – this love – into himself and hold it tight; keep it safe for the journey.

'Bye, you two. Be bloody perfect; if not: don't get caught.'

'We'll see you tonight, Dad? Yes? Need to catch up?' Hugo seemed to hold him, pausing for his reply in the midst of his breakfast. 'We haven't talked for a bit; I've… I've missed you.'

'Me, too.' Oh, my beautiful boy. My boy. My son. 'Yes, I hope so.' Tears again? No. Hold them in. 'That would be brilliant…' Ron said quietly and sincerely.

He turned without another word, entering the fireplace fully, flicking the powder and whispering his destination all in one swift clear set of actions. The Floo Network took hold of him and he began to move from one state of place to another. As he moved through magic, space and time, he suddenly remembered that quotation of Thomas Cromwell's that wouldn't come to him when he'd been trying to explain to Harry how he felt about everything. I'm on the cusp, Harry; I'm about to be transfigured, Harry – what did Cromwell say when he was trying to save himself and Cardinal Wolsey and beg mercy of the King? Harry was still amazed at the amount of Muggle information Ron now had at his command.

'_Where I will either make or mar, or come again'._

Yes, that was it. '_Where I will either make or mar, or come again'._ Or come to hell, perhaps. Whatever it was to be, it was to begin today. Today, he would begin to risk all – make or mar. Or come to hell. Well, we would see.

Time to act.

Today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Ministry.**

'Well?'

'I canvassed nine, last night. They think we'll lose the vote by four or five votes.'

'Nothing else?'

'The Secrecy Committee have agreed the surveillance on the Parish Hotel. They agreed the location was perfect with so much Muggle and Magical business being conducted from a major leisure franchise.'

'And Justice haven't had a word of this?'

'No. The Undersecretary's Advocate called in first thing, sniffing around: _why were we going to the Committee? Something in the air? Have we shared? We are playing the game, aren't we?_ And so on.'

'Well, we are playing a game – just not theirs. What did you say?'

'Just protocol, the usual check with the Committee every three months: what covert operations are being officially sanctioned and what are emergencies; what can be backdated, etcetera. '

'Excellent. Excellent, John.' _'Where I will either make or mar, or come again'._ Time to set the charms in motion. 'I want you to begin preparing the contingencies in case the review goes against us. As always, we need to be ready for anything. If it is a result against us, I want to act fast to hasten their release by agreeing to suppress some other of the charges, understand? Talk to Clark and check the next steps – _any_ next steps – we will need to stop them. We need the Prosecution to falter. The rest of Team A, especially the Section Leaders, try canvassing the other authorities on how far we can push the surveillance idea – but keep it quiet – constant vigilance, yes? We must find out what's happening. Must! Right, on we go. We're not done yet; not by a long broom trip.' The expression on his face brooked no further discussion, and the other man recognised a dismissal - but he paused.

'Yes, John?'

'The Undersecretary, sir?'

'What about her?'

'She's not going to be happy, sir. Not at all.'

'That's a price I'll have to pay…' _and I'll pay it, however much I don't want to._ 'Enough, John. Move on this, today with all speed, and keep me posted every hour, understood?' John nodded and was gone, into the melee of the bustle of the Great Atrium… and as the Chief Auror of Britain watched his Chief Assistant disappear swiftly to his appointed tasks, he stood alone, alone in all the moving figures of the Atrium - a grim, immovable figure: implacable and still…


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The First Lie.**

Another disguise and another mask. Or was it real sham this time, too?

_It was the lie that destroyed him._

And the lies had destroyed Nixon. _There can be no whitewash at the White House…_

Downstairs, he had been the youngest and greatest Chief Auror Britain had seen for a century, walking in his tall, brooding way; nodding with dignity as he had to acknowledge the various officials, administrators, civil servants, 'Very-Important-Wizards-Or-Witches', logistical staff, lackeys, layabouts, liars, cheats; good blokes, bad blokes, womanisers, latent psychotics and on and on - and then other dregs of Magical society, just to make sure he'd covered everyone.

He'd remembered those words of Nixon's – the President hadn't been speaking of himself at the time, but cruellest of ironies, it had turned out to sum up his end perfectly; he'd watched the film with Hermione, years ago. _How many liars here, eh?_ Ron mused as he moved towards the elevators and his particular destination. At least one, and he knew who that was. The rest were all innocents, all like new-born pygmy-puffs, fluffy and light. Compared to the liar he knew, prat or professor, they were as saints compared to him because… he was the Devil.

He was the Devil because he was on his way to lie. To lie to Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley. The hardest working, most conscientious and radically-minded Undersecretary for Justice and Legal Administration, for over a century. At least they had that in common: the 'over a century bit'. But she was no liar. God forgive him, because he couldn't…

There would be a monstrous debt to pay for all this, when it was done. _If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly._ Truly monstrous.

But then again, he _was_ a monster.

As he waited patiently for the elevator to complete its task, an amazing transformation occurred. He could feel it, feel it as easily and naturally as feeling the heat of the sun on his skin on a summer's day. The change as natural as breathing, from one breath to the next. But no-one else in the elevator would have noticed so miraculous a change. For it was subtle and stealthy – like insidious poison, sipped in the tiniest amounts over time, to build up a resistance – incremental – and it had begun even as he'd left home this morning.

Doting, loving, honourable, compassionate, funny father, husband … lover? To become … feel the poison drip – drip – drip...

So, today, he acted. Today, Ronald Bilius Weasley was beginning the campaign to cap fifteen years' work… drip – drip - drip -

To… Chief Auror of Britain: clear, precise, ruthless, and almost elemental in your zeal for the job?

To become … feel the poison drip – drip...

The Political Animal, now striding along a corridor, to its destination, letting the cogs of its mind-machine whirr its calculations and calibrations and risk assessments. _There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune_. Before Ron Weasley disappeared for a little while completely, beneath a veneer, a brilliant pretence of sincerity, he couldn't help but think how his quotation mind exercises Hermione had taught him years before, ostensibly to help him focus and discipline his train of thought, had taken a very dark hue.

Nixon. Macbeth. Brutus.

A disgraced American Muggle President. A regicide and a traitor. An assassin and friend-slayer.

It should have been quotations from Dumbledore. Lincoln. Beedle _the bloody_ Bard. Anyone else with some light, to guide him out… of this place he was in.

But, too late, Ron Weasley had gone now, submerged emotionally and mentally and the Political Animal preened itself as it neared its destination. The secretaries and assistants posted outside her office all knew IT, the Political Animal and smiled deferentially as IT passed them, moving to place the _special knock_, the knock that was only for _her_ door. IT paused. Was IT ready? IT turned back slightly; looked at the surroundings, getting the lie of the land, preparing for another battle. IT understood this: The Ministry. To do. To achieve. To be the best.

He, that gingered cretin, now submerged in six foot four of flesh and blood, fooled himself for a time: he _would_ feel something, he'd told himself last night. He'd whined. He'd bleated. Life wasn't fair. Boo hoo! Moron. No! IT would feel - would feel: _powerful_. Was that better than sex? Here he'd changed. Here he'd excelled. Here he'd pushed to find another side of himself he didn't even know existed.

Or liked…

Too late anyway, eh_? __I am in blood stepped in so far that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er._ Yes, Macbeth has it right. It's too late. A little political 'ambush' with his wife - and fifteen years of work could be stopped from unravelling, like even the most potent magical wool will after centuries of use – the charm fades. IT mused … _the charm fades_. She seemed sad last night. Why sad? Had _he_ noticed? IT mused.

There was darkness here; there was rancour – here, where IT excelled. It would not be allowed. He'd drive it out – crush it all. There was something. Something. Somebody? Some shadow, always on the edge of his sight, murky and taunting… And he'd return the favour. IT would make it personal to... him.

He was going to find the something, _the somebody,_ murky and taunting and all playful – and grind it down, grind it to dust – hard and slow. They were not going to stop him. _Or IT._

He'd do it for her. Just for her.

_Always for her._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Interview.**

He'd made the special knock and the door had opened – and IT had nearly betrayed itself, because she sat behind her desk, hair back, glasses perched on nose, studying God-knows-what and looking to him like she'd been shaped in the morning of the world. Hearts cannot break. It cannot literally happen, but, for ten seconds, whilst his eyes seemed to make her essence gravitate into his very core, he swore he felt his burn up inside and incinerate itself – and she hadn't even looked up.

She was dressed in the dark green of the Justice Department, with her shirt tastefully opened, he noticed, at the collar, showing the graceful lines of her neck, downward and hinting at delights to be found. Oh God in Heaven! Her hand was absently stroking the flesh at the base of her throat. Make me a finger, a thumb, a digit of any kind – let me trace that line, let me answer the question she naturally asked: _Am I not fair? _O, my love. My love. You are fair. You are_ so_ fair. Let my finger trace that line and seek lower? Let me show you your fairness? Let me be the most delicate brush of the slightest tenderness, to your beauty, to your grace – let me touch you with all the feeling I have, with just that one finger, and with such loving mildness and ALL my love, yet it would have the weight as if a planet pressed upon you. Oh my –

'Ron?'

IT took control.

'Sorry. Was I staring?'

'Yes!' she smirked. 'Chief Auror! What an unexpected pleasure!' She stood up and, coming around the desk to him, reached up to his face and pulled him down to smartly kiss him on the lips. Be strong. Resist. Remember the lie. Planets and stars and galaxies! God! Just her touch and he could forget everything. But she'd returned to her work, sitting back down and watching him as he now took one of the seats on the other side of the desk. This was going to be business.

'Well?' So she was trying the direct approach; she never could lie properly. Well, only once – and he never wanted to think of that… Well, he could lie for her and him together, plus half the county of Devon if he needed to, alright. IT was about to begin when that dangerous Granger impatience gave him an early break.

'Okay, Chief Auror Weasley, be quick – but you're going to get next to nothing, you know that, don't you? So, do you want the 'concerned lawyer' face – that's bloody expensive, at least two hundred galleons per half-hour or the 'you're-so-stuffed-do-it-now-with-the-wand lawyer' face which is free but ends in Azkaban.' Her eyebrows rose as she looked up at him. She'd joked. He must get that? 'I appreciate the pantomime, by the way, we've just had, but memo next time, okay?'

What pantomime? My God! Did she mean the kiss or the staring!? Or - wait. John and the Advocate? He smiled lopsidedly at her for a few seconds; then, without changing his expression, plunged straight into troubled waters.

'Yes, the Committee is happy and all's as usual.' Pause. Wait. Now. 'It's going to pass the case review, isn't it?' He just needed some corroboration, to give today's tactics a foundation to thrive.

The frown had returned and a weight appeared to have settled on her shoulders. Even so, God, she looks beautiful today. Complete and beautiful. 'Ron, you know I cannot predict what's going to happen, the review must be completely impartial and we –'

He interrupted forcefully. 'Yes, yes, I know that, Hermione but what do you feel? Hmm? Bet with me here, yes? Odds? Evens?' He looked past her for a moment; his picture waved cheerfully back at him: not exactly the dignified posture of the Chief Auror of Britain. Rosie and Hu were in another on the wall. What would they think of Daddy's 'pantomime' with the lawyers? 'Look, Hermione; I just need some little intimation of what you think might happen, yes? You have to present the cases pre-review and the Wizard-Advocate is supposed to give some kind of verdict on the success of the case prior to full review, just as a measure to ensure some semblance of thoroughness. This case is one of the beginning steps to the culmination of fifteen years hard work and he would've discussed it with you before today and –'

'I know that, Ron.'

'I just cannot afford for this to go completely to Hades and back because –'

'I know that, Ron!'

'Some bloody basic technicality which really has no true bearing on the case but which is circumstantial, is allowed to lord itself over all the previous considerations and –'

'You'll lose.'

'And the Department's worked so incredibly hard – what?'

'You'll lose.'

'How? We'll lose? How? In what way? Where's the –'

'The Wizard-Advocate thought the overall case had legal merit but some of your witnesses are dubious at best and crooked at worst. I think we'll lose on a count of four to five. I never said any of this. Understand, my love?' And she gave him that look – one Department Head to another.

'Why?' he asked, very simply. She looked confused. 'Why the witnesses?'

'Your new evidence presented this morning might be thrown out.'

'What the hell? Then you must, MUST, challenge it.

'You know I can't. Everything is now readied for the committee. It's under our jurisdiction and I can't release it, not even for Merlin himself – not even for you... This new evidence will be examined now.'

'But I need this.' He spoke quietly now, their eyes locking completely. He needed her to understand. Oh, you silver-tongued shit.

'I know, my love, but we must proceed by the book, by the very letter – even technicalities, any doubt, loop-hole - we must be above reproach, or we're not any better than them.'

Look like this didn't placate, not in the slightest. 'We're already better than them. The case was good! It was sound! There were enough grounds to move to full prosecution.' He paused. 'They're going to get away and they'll disappear and I'll be back at the beginning and –'

'There might be other points to consider. We can possibly use some of the lesser charges to hold them further but – I've got no choice. Okay? You know I have to do it this way.' She paused. Went still and looked up, all animation stopped. She was thinking. Her expression didn't change for several moments. Then she just gazed very levelly back at him. 'Look, I'll lodge some kind of appeal but it'll delay at the most – something's gone wrong and until we know what, we can do no more than apply the Law – as we must. Yes?' The last part wasn't a question but a challenge. 'We do it for the Law and justice.'

His words to John came back to him from earlier: _We need the Prosecution to falter_ but he hadn't added the most important part: _but all MUST look normal_. And he was looking right now at the most beautiful and brilliant Prosecution and he was going to let her falter. You bastard: you're going to burn with Ol'Voldie! Be quiet and focus.

'Is that enough?' Make the face impassive, now, or at least a little hurt.

'No, Ron,' she said quietly. 'I do it for you, as well – always for you. You know that.'

She now got up slowly. The interview was over, the pantomime's curtain about to be brought down. She came again from behind the desk and as she was about to lead him back to the door, he caught her arm tenderly and pressed his mouth to her ear.

'I love you.' he whispered.

'I know. I love you.' She gently flicked her wand and the door opened. She didn't look back as she returned to her desk and her work. The Undersecretary was back; his wife had gone. They were soon going to be lost again in the melee of the Ministry.

The door was now fully open and he wasn't sure or cared if people saw or heard. IT seemed to blink out of reckoning for an instance and, in that instance, he didn't know what made him say it but he quietly but clearly said, 'Did you kiss me this morning?'

'What?' She looked up confused, from her papers.

'Did you kiss me goodbye before you left for work?'

'Yes but you were asleep.'

'Where?'

'What!?'

'Where did you kiss me?'

She looked at him. 'On the forehead, I think.'

'Right.' He smiled a farewell. 'I would just like to have remembered it. That's all.' he said quietly. Before she could reply, he'd gone and the door was shut, closing her in.

Shit. Bastard. You lied. You're a liar and a cheat. She would have understood. It's beginning to cost too much – all this. Just tell her. Tell her the truth. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

You don't deserve her.

He proceeded straight from the door to the nearest male facilities, where, without seeing if he was alone or not, locked himself into the nearest cubicle, crashed straight to his knees in front of the bowl and retched and vomited till his throat was raw.

His body consumed with spasms but his mind kept repeating: _It was the lie that destroyed him._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Oasis.**

He'd never fail to love this place. It was his oasis, his retreat from clamouring mobs. You might think a great official's office would be the last place he'd be able to find some peace but Ron had kept on the move so much through the average working day over the years that most people, including the Minister, had got used to the reply, 'He's out at the moment, Sir; can we take a message?' Memos would now fly in, or the odd patronus – people no longer 'dropped in', preferring to catch him on the move; leaving him free for those moments when he was actually in, to pause, think and take shelter from the world he'd worked in now for many years.

He'd left the toilet after his conference with Hermione, performing a quick yet thorough cleansing charm, swallowing some pride whilst doing this, thinking about the disgust and self-loathing he'd just vomited up so copiously.

He didn't feel particularly clean … or purged. He didn't feel anything … particularly.

Reaching his office, he gave a look to his secretary that always meant _I'm not in_ and quickly disappeared inside, closing the door quietly.

'Vaughan Williams, Symphony No 5, Third Movement, Sir John Barbirolli, Halle Orchestra; middle volume.' The music charm took and his office was flooded with glorious orchestral sounds that began to still his mind and take him away from his lie. The office was charmed for this; outside the walls there was nothing. It was just for him.

He stood by the door and closed his eyes. He tried to picture Hermione. He tried to see her in his mind. Nothing. Blank.

He could hear the lie. He could hear all the lies.

He let the music take him and waited for John's first update.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Smoking.**

And so the day rolled on.

Ron mused on how things had turned out, standing in the shady copse at the back of the Weasley's extensive property, smoking a cheroot – an occasional sin, this one – and watching the smoke drift languidly into the paling evening sky.

By 2pm, he'd had five, not four updates as expected, including two from John in person, rather than a memo.

'Votes done, sir. We're through. The Undersecretary's appeal has had some success but was overturned in the last five minutes, so they won't be released immediately but will be back on the streets by 9pm tonight, perhaps earlier. The lawyers are wrangling over immediate release but my contact thinks 8pm at earliest, when it happens.'

The lie had worked. _Happy now? Happy, you shit?_

'Good. Move on this, John. I want the teams in place by 6pm, no later, just in case they do go early. Everything as we agreed, yes? Their homes, places of frequenting, girlfriends' doss hole, granny's attic – I don't care - and especially the Parish Hotel: I want them all watched. How many officers have we allocated now for this?'

'Fifty overall; but we've managed to break the shifts down so it'll look like nothing more than a usual district surveillance sweep over an area – we should have the space and the time.'

'I hope so, John. How long do you and the planning team think we've got before questions start being asked over this – any extra budget requirements etcetera, or Justice catch a whiff? I'd planned for six days.'

'We think we can manage a week, perhaps a week to nine days but then the policing of the International Conference will need to be discussed at the Undersecretaries' Forum and we may have to explain current commitments in detail.'

'Right. Do it. I want the teams running hard for this. We're so close. And any complaints from anyone – Section Leader to Junior Auror – tell them I'll floor them to the bloody Owlery where they can feed the damn birdies for the next sixty years, understood?'

'Understood completely.'

'Good. The Parish in particular must be watched most carefully; that's the link – I thought it was the centre of everything – but it's just the beginning of the trail. Good luck, John. And before you go, keep me informed, day or night, whenever. We are so bloody close.'

Ron took another draw on the cheroot; he must remember to charm himself of the odour and taste of tobacco. He'd forgotten a few times over the years and Hermione had delivered some spectacular lectures on the dangers and disadvantages of smoking in general. _Did you know…? Another reason you shouldn't is…_ God, love her, she was unstoppable when on moral crusade. As he watched the smoke peel away into the air beneath the trees' branches, beautiful White Poplars in this copse – never cut them back, Ron, remember that because they are beautiful and you need them – he stood gazing upwards, imagining Hermione dressed in Fifteenth Century Muggle armour, admonishing him – for his 'filthy (occasional) habit' of sucking the aromatic toxins out of a very small cigar. He wondered, if he promised her, to give up, would she dress up like that – for him. Oh God! Stop! Hermione in armour!? Why was that so wrong – yet so arousing? Mind you; she'd be the 'knight in shining armour' for a change, yes? He snorted to himself quietly and let his mind drift back to the day.

3pm. Teams were assembling he was informed. The prisoners had taken a light lunch and would be released now at 7pm.

Conference with John at 3.30pm. Move everything up, he thinks, by half-an-hour and be bloody quick about it. We mustn't miss this.

The smoke curled and snaked its way into the air and he couldn't help but think of how he'd had to change and adapt – become like the snake as well as the lion; never a good mix, Gryffindor and Slytherin, he mused as the evening slowly deepened.

4pm. He was musing on his life at the Ministry. Here he'd stepped out of whatever brotherly shadows he'd pushed himself under when he was younger, usually feeling like some youthful slug seeking shade and moisture to avoid the glare of the sun of embarrassment and ridicule. Here he really was 'Weasley the King'. Here he'd built an empire. Here he'd challenged himself by applying for and achieving the role of Head of Muggle Liaison. Here he'd shadowed the Muggle Prime Minister of the day, receiving golden opinions and plaudits from the great and the good. Here he'd grown like his father to appreciate more and more of the wonder of the Muggle way of life and indeed the wonder of the world itself; outside of Muggle-born wizards and witches like Hermione, he was considered an expert on Muggle affairs now in the Wizarding world.

Here he'd achieved the highest ratio of arrests-to-successful-convictions for a generation – not even the great, late Mad-Eye could claim as much. Here he'd struck out into the very heart of the remnant Death Eater community, laying waste wherever he found them, the thoughts of his family's torments still fresh in his mind, the name of Lestrange always foremost. Oh, he would pursue them to the end of time. Here, at a mere day's notice, he'd taken control of the District Southern, completely reorganising it in a night, side-lining the recalcitrant and driving such a viciously effective offensive that the South of England and Wales was cleared of all secret Death Eater camps and cells within two weeks.

Here, to Muggle Liaison, he'd added Head of Foreign Affairs Magical In Europe, liaising with the French and Germans, learning to speak their languages as well as Italian and Spanish in two years: in _two months_, their joint campaign had driven all the major Death Eaters-in-exile, their allies and any other major 'pliers' in the Dark Arts 'Trade', as he contemptuously called them, into either: the sea, distant regions of Central Asia - where his name, was carried like a breath of the Dragon Pox to any listeners there, so shattered was the Death Eaters' resistance - or if necessary, into the grave.

Here he'd become the Chief Auror of Great Britain, one of the highest magical offices of the land, and at forty, the youngest for over a hundred years. Here he'd built a world of safety and security for all, for wizards and Muggles alike, and for his family above any – for his children, parents, his brothers and their families; for Fred and all the Fallen; for Teddy; for Ginny and Harry – for Harry, who deserved so, so much. And for her.

For Hermione, above all.

As he mulled over the day, he enjoyed the copse's peace, call of birds as they prepared to roost and the general feeling that everything was settling down for the night. Nothing to lie about here: just be yourself, be natural. He surveyed the Ministry in his mind, this world he'd claimed for his own and somehow made his own, and he couldn't help but feel the irony of his situation. Irony. _That_ feeling, that idea, he _could _feel and understand.

This entirety, he'd done himself. True, he and Harry were the most successful ministerial and political team in recent magical history and certainly the most prestigious. After all, when do you have two thirds of the 'Golden Trio' galvanising and shaping magical life so thoroughly and ruthlessly, yet not losing the common touch? In some parts of public life, they'd remained simply 'Ron and Harry and Hermione: the Golden Trio'. They'd all started at the bottom and worked their way to the very top – there was only the Wizengamot and the Minister's position itself to be considered now. And with Hermione creating a similar furore throughout the entire legal system over the years, revolutionising the rights of Non-Magical Creatures, it was not surprising to think of them all as possibly the most respected and admired figures in the wizarding world. They'd all earned it – the hard way. But… but…

As Harry for a time had gained the overall day-to-day running and training of the Auror Department, Ron had worked in tandem with him, but the jobs that were his sole responsibility he'd guarded, almost jealously. The departments he ran were _his_. This was _his_ name to be made, _and by God, he was going to make it_. So, he'd become the 'Great Strategist', a force in the world of 'Law Enforcement' to be reckoned with – and eventually when old Collins retired as Chief Auror, Harry and he, amongst others, had all gone for the job.

And he got it.

True, perhaps Harry's heart hadn't been in it anymore; the pull to education was too strong and in the end, Kingsley had founded the new Sub-Ministry for Education and Harry had become Chief Undersecretary. Maybe this was a consolation for the disappointment 'The Chosen One' might feel at losing out but, in fact, he'd proved brilliant in the role. There was some opposition to Harry Potter's 'lunatic' reforms but the tides of life were with them and the reforms rolled on.

No, he'd done all this without Harry. And without Hermione.

From the very beginning of their life after the Battle of Hogwarts, they'd supported each other utterly and completely – but in the actual day-to-day detail, the real meat-and-bone, the grist of it all, they were alone, apart from each other, slowly pulling apart.

She supported him incredibly strongly through his Auror training and she achieved a wizardly saint-like status in his eyes for putting up with all his and Harry's adventures over those initial two years! But it had been worth it for the look of pride on her face when he graduated. God! THAT had been a day and night and day again of rejoicing for the good things in life. She'd understood his desire to expand the Auror force to now number in the thousands, though she'd warn of 'police states' at times. He'd laughed that one off.

She applauded his desire for a peaceful and happy world, though she didn't always applaud his methods: _Barty Crouch Senior_, she'd whisper sometimes. _Had the right idea_, he'd think back. (_If she was some kind of prophetess-figure, warning him to the dangers of power, why couldn't she see what it cost him? _But that he'd always leave unanswered.) He completely supported her efforts to change unjust and archaic laws, especially in her work early on in her career for House Elves and Werewolves. 'Blood traitor' had been shrieked at him more than once as he'd apprehend another Death Eater in some crime scene but he carried it now, as always, as a badge of honour. No, she, like Harry, had built her own empire and it was good. It just sometimes clashed with his; usually having cases thrown out. Technicalities, loop-holes, laws (forgotten for a thousand years and scraped of the backside of some shite-threadbare tome) were all liberally applied by smartarse lawyers, often under her guidance, preaching peace and equality before the Law. Ron did not mind. No, they were wrong – all the 'nay-sayers': he did not mind that his wife believed this. Really. He valued justice utterly – deep down anyway, he mused, as the cheroot's smoke rasped out of his nose. He just wasn't sure about the Law anymore.

The rows they'd had when their empires clashed were, frankly, titanic – and the love that usually followed was simply scorching: Hugo was one wonderful result of an early dispute. Hugo. How could such a wonderful thing be born out of such fury? It was never easy, sometimes, between him and Hermione. Never easy. He looked up. Past the rising cheroot smoke, a star had begun to glimmer.

4.15pm. _'Sir, a Floo Call has come in from Versailles. Do you wish to take it?_' The French? Today? What the hell did they want? He looked straight at the secretary with 'the Face'. 'No. Apologise. I'll have to call them back. Do not specify when if they ask for an opening.'

It was the face he'd adopted here and on all official business for years now. When the French Ambassador had told Harry, Kingsley and Collins what an excellent official Ron was and how effective he'd been, he'd added how serious he was though and _Did he ever smile, Monsieur Potter, your friend, in his life?;_ they'd all been so shocked to understand the lengths Ron was going to, to achieve his ambitions and appear the utterly serious, dedicated 'Man of the Ministry'. Ron had laughed in private when Harry relayed the Ambassador's words but inwardly he was … what? Pleased? It was beginning to cost. The effort. It was beginning to cost…

It struck home even more when he finally got a sniff of the nickname he would ever go by in the corridors of power, amongst the juniors of all departments: The Grim. God Almighty. That one bit deep. Ron choked slightly on the cigar's smoke when he thought of that. Cheek or admiration from the next generation?

Apparently suspects would forget themselves and their bodily control – evacuating both their mouths and bowels when they saw him and that now-famous hardened demeanour. _Criminals? Murderers? Death Eaters? Merlin's arse and stuff the Goblet! The Chief Auror looks more like any murderer than the real ones, all put together! _they would joke. Only those closest to him would understand a little of the pain of the joke: whether ol'Bilius had seen a grim or not, they'd been close and it hurt. It was beginning to cost…

5pm. He'd still been in his office, sitting like some great arachnid in a web of his design, watching his plans roll out, John's updates, Juniors bringing release forms to be sanctioned, Section Leaders come to report final dispositions for the Auror details, either in London or across Britain. And the operation that no-one need know about – yet, anyway.

The one he'd called 'Beachcomber'.

He'd watched his father, on those rare family holidays, at the seaside, walking up and down the sands, picking up anything of interest – this loving, patient, compassionate man – searching and laughing and looking and taking delight in what he found. And Ron would join him and love being with him – but the best part was picking something up and finding another thing – a crab skulking, a lugworm hole, an intricate pattern impressed into the sands – all met with delight by his father. 'See Ron; see what we've found!' his father would exclaim. 'Deeper and hidden, Ron; deeper and hidden, eh?'

So, now, he was going to comb the world, the world of London and criminals and murderers and find interesting things on the beaches of life. Then he'd pick them and look underneath for the deeper and hidden.

The last of the cheroot smoke trailed up into the evening air. He watched it intently. It was rising – searching… searching… for things – for deeper and hidden.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: The First Sign of the Storm.**

Cheroot finished and the butt-end stubbed into the grass under the trees, Ron looked to the west. The last of the evening's light was just fading and he could see the faint build-up of clouds on the horizon; there'd be rain tomorrow, maybe or the day after: perhaps a storm was coming. Maybe the storm would break soon.

A silvered otter landed gracefully at his feet. _Dinner is ready; get in here now, gorgeous! _Well, at least she had a happy thought to create that. Hope the food was as good. If Rosie had helped, it would be. No, that was completely unfair. Just as his understanding of so many things in this world had changed and developed, Hermione's cookery skills had improved – at least as far as bacon sandwiches were concerned. It wasn't that she was a bad cook, it was just her relentless drive for the unobtainable that resulted in furious and usually hilarious fits of fury where various recipes she'd try would end up crashing against the wall or being dumped unceremoniously in the sink or waste-bin. Amazing, really! The brightest witch of her age, who'd shown the patience of the ages to brew Polyjuice back in the day at school, but couldn't stand to watch a loaf rise or an omelette bloom to a golden brown; who could outwait the dourest opponent in court or patiently correct misconceptions in front of the Wizengamot – but thought cheese-on-toast bubbling under a grill was an abomination before the gods of time-keeping. He smiled at the memory. He'd always been the one to use the tiny grill in their first flat together – immature, rowdy Ronald Weasley, admittedly growing up very quickly in those days, appreciating what he'd got in this incredible, incredible young woman -brilliant, waspish, beautiful, sexy, loving Hermione Jean Granger – and he'd appreciated the slow explosion of smells coming from grilling sausage, bacon, egg or cheese – or all of them together. Famous appetite or not, he'd learnt to wait for good food. And that's why he'd done the greater part of the cooking ever since, whatever busy schedules they'd had.

A twinge of guilt stabbed into him suddenly and viciously. The Horcrux Hunt. Was that why she'd really gone off cooking? Maybe he should have done his share of the cooking – or just bloody cooked. There were a lot of things he should have done his share off then. The guilt stabbed him again but in his mind a metalled glove grasped that particular dagger and held the thoughts down. Down, you bastards, not tonight; struggling to feel anything properly at the moment – but don't want to be reacquainted with you, not very soon at all…

Now, go back in, smile, be relaxed and take your time. Enjoy everyone and everything, make time for the small things as well as the big. And try and enjoy her above all. She was worth it and always would be.

Yes, you keep telling yourself that.

Before reaching the back door, he paused for a moment or two to create lumos with his wand and look into the grasses on the border. Only a couple of seconds searching – and he found his moth. Stay there, beautiful. Be safe for me. Something wonderful in this world.

The meal went extremely well. The food proved excellent. Rosie was beaming because lovely Uncle Harry had promised her the interview she'd been after (as if he'd say no, for God's sake!) as her first major stint as an apprentice journalist at The Daily Prophet. Hugo teased her about asking the right questions, suggesting ways she could be probing for weaknesses in the famous Chief Undersecretary for Education's grasp of his own policy – perhaps by probing his Chief Assistant, Scorpius Malfoy? Ron laughed uproariously at this, Hermione feigning shock before too dissolving into giggles, Rosie all the time threatening Hugo with other probings if he didn't shut up bloody quickly and stop being so damned crude, before she noticed her father's good humour on that particular topic.

'You don't mind?' She asked him directly.

'Mind? _Why should he mind? What? Old history? No, he just minded some of it…_

'He's a Malfoy, son of Draco, grandson of Lucius: want me to go on?'

'I've met him a number of times now, with and without your Uncle Harry. He strikes me as a serious and kind-hearted young man who has a brilliant future ahead of him. And Uncle Harry thinks he likes you a great deal and is sincere. So, yes, I like him – I'm not minding at present…' Ron paused. 'Do you love him?'

'Ron!' Hermione gasped. Hugo choked on his wine, smirking. 'Bloody hell, Dad; way to go for it – don't hold back – say what you think, eh?'

Ron ignored them both and looked at his daughter. Now - completely sincere. 'I repeat: do you love him, Rosie?'

Rosie was smiling back at her father. 'Yes.'

'And do you think he loves you?' Hermione and Hugo looked at each other, the look they shared clearly stating _Who are you and what have you done with Ron Weasley?_

'Yes.' Ron noticed how simply and happily Rosie said this, as if she was saying _The Sun rises in the East. Fact. And it is a good fact. The best fact._

'Good. Very good. Then no-more to be said. You're obviously happy with him and I hope it is everything you want it to be – and so much more. Right,' turning to Hermione, 'any more of that superb sauce which I think, my love, you yourself really did create, by hand, with real Hermione Granger patience?' Hermione laughed at him as she charmed more sauce on to his plate. Ron seemed oblivious to the happy awkwardness he'd just created, and so the others looked at each other quickly whilst he busied himself loading up more potatoes from the serving bowls in front of him. He could see the very thoughts themselves: what just happened? Rosie's look shone out with joy – she didn't care. But he noticed, alright!

'Right, Hu! I'm going to finish this delicious meal the good ladies have created for us all, then I'm going to beat the banshee's arse off you at chess and then we'll pick that new Quidditch gear you'd set your heart on, okay. It'll be my treat? Save your pay packet.'

'Yes, save it for – who was it? Oh, yes. Josie from Potions Development. Nice choice, Hu!' Rosie purred, looking at him with a mock 'come hither' look.

'Oh balls, you!' Hu laughed. 'Go see Scorpy!'

'Thank you, kidlets! Behave!' laughed Ron, putting a warming charm on to his food. 'Back in a minute or two – little boys' room calls.'

Inside! Now, he thought. Door closed, locked and muffliato-charmed, he just crashed against the wall, sliding down to sitting, 'joss-arsed' by the toilet bowl and the tears came. Give them everything tonight. Be happy for them. Make them happy. FEEL SOMETHING.

She loves him. He could see it in her answer, like a shimmer in the very air when she spoke. His heart had swelled when she did that. No, it wasn't all a sham. He'd really, really felt that joy and it had made memories surge inside. Wonderful memories. Why only memories now? At least, like his moth, he'd found some beauty for Rosie in what he'd said – and felt – about her and Scorpius. Hang on to that.

He rocked very slowly, very slightly, back and forth. Why only memories now?

'Blimey, Dad! You okay? You were gone five minutes at least? All working down below?'

'Hugo! Too much!' scolded Hermione.

Ron just laughed. 'No, it's fine, honestly – lost track of time, eh.' And also charmed my face clean, he retorted to himself. 'Right, complete this great dinner and I'll be with you Hu.'

The rest of the evening was superb because it was as close to really feeling something good and true and pure that Ron so needed. No-one seemed to pick up on anything else different about him tonight after the food was gone and done with. It was so simple, really. Rosie and Hermione had watched part of a romantic comedy together whilst he and Hugo caught up over a game of chess and the latest Quidditch magazines, a very heated discussion on why the Chudleys were still crap and how, if they had the money, they'd reshape the squad and, when Rosie and Hermione were a little more engrossed in the film, who the hell Josie was and what had she got to do with his son.

Time passed.

Rosie went to bed. Hugo had gone up shortly before. Hermione had already finally retreated to her study; 'Reports to check – just very last minute details; won't be too long.'

Time passed. Crookshanks wandered into the main sitting room, very old and venerable, even for a magical cat. Ron sat on the sofa and patted the space by him. Crookshanks looked up lazily and with an agility astonishing in apparently so old a creature leapt straight on to the space by Ron's hand and curled up. Ron gently caressed the 'old retainer' as he'd nick-named him and let his mind wander.

She's in there now. You miss her. _Feel something, Ron_. Go and talk to her.

Leaving Crookshanks deeply and contentedly asleep, he got up and walked quietly through the kitchen, the spacious central hallway, and stopping on the study's threshold, rapped lightly with his knuckles, for permission to enter. She looked up from her work.

'Wondered if you wanted a tea or coffee – or a back rub or …' He smiled tiredly at her as he leant against the door frame. She looked – good. Great, in fact. Tired, true – but who wouldn't be running one of the great magical departments of government. No, he couldn't put his finger quite on the idea – it was something – just on the edge of his vision – but she looked good.

He caught his reflection from the mirror behind her on the study's wall. Shit! Despite all the laughter tonight and the fun, he looked – well, he looked like shite – that was clear. What did he expect, for God's sake? He looked healthy enough; he was still in great shape for a man nearer to fifty than ever but he just had an indefinable air of – what? Being lost? _Or having lost something?_

'Ron?'

'Umm? Oh! Sorry.' He pushed himself off the frame and sauntered into the room slowly. 'So, drink then?'

'Some tea, please.' He'd smiled at her and was just turning to go back and make her drink when she stopped him. 'Ron?' He turned back to her.

'I wasn't going to mention it till tomorrow morning but – Versailles called me today, just before I came home; caught me in fact as I just about to go out of the office door.'

'Yes? Okay. So?' The evening's joy simply evaporated. The French. Again. Couldn't get him so went for his wife. 'What did they want? I saw the French Ambassador a month back and we had a very lengthy chat on any major matters in this cycle of discussions. Kingsley was very happy with it, actually.' he added.

'It wasn't the Ambassador. I know he's back there currently on leave - but it wasn't him.'

Something in the way she said this made his gut gripe and stop. Something on the edge of his sight - _murky and taunting and all playful. _He was become a real life cliché, he thought, like in some bloody drama - because time really seemed to slow. Breathe. Be still. Wait. Think. Pause. Then. Ask a question.

'Who -?'

He noticed her slowness in replying. He noticed her deliberation. He could see her thinking how he was going to take this. He was still, almost completely unmoving, as by an invisible weight that was settling down on to him, pound by steady pound, pushing him down into utter immobility and helplessness.

'They said you seemed to be unavailable to take the call or were busy. The call was felt to be very urgent so – '

'Who, Hermione?'

'- they called me, to kill two birds with one stone, being your wife and the Justice Undersecretary –'

'Who?'

The storm was breaking after all. It was breaking early.

Hermione spoke quietly but every word carried weight. 'The International Magical Court. It was the Commission's Advocate himself. The Zagreb Case is to be reopened and the Court to be reconvened. They want to talk to you. About war crimes.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The Calm... Before It Rains.**

'What?'

The question he gave back to her was simple enough but his tone of voice was laden with disbelief and pent-up fury in the long-drawn out vowels and the clipped, savage ending he gave to the letter t.

Hermione put her pen down and placed her hands in front of her, as if she was giving legal advice to a rather volatile client who needed to be handled with magical spell-arms from at least one hundred yards. However, Ron noticed she looked him straight in the eye and didn't falter.

'New evidence has been produced and new testimony taken: new witnesses have come forward. The new allegations against Piotrowski are considerably more serious than the first trial and, as a key witness to the closing stages of the Battle of Budapest, you are required to give another statement, at least, probably even testify and take the stand – ' She stopped. She'd noticed Ron's expression. His face had a slightly derisive look to it a few moments back when she'd started talking, despite the anger of his question's tone, but now it matched his voice.

'Bullshit!'

'Ron,' she began. 'You're expected to be in Paris as soon as practicable to give – '

'Utter bullshit! No! I gave a statement straight after the battle and then at the enquiry at headquarters in Zagreb before their military tribunal a month later. We all know what happened. Piotrowski was one of the best commanders the Coalition had but he continued the fight after the ceasefire signal had been up for five minutes; the whole bloody brigade saw it and that's when those Death Eaters died. Simple. He did a year in prison for deliberately disobeying orders and carrying the fight beyond the point of reasonable suffering as we call it. That's the end; that's all. Why the hell do they want this raked over again, for God' sake?' Ron's voice had not risen to its usual shout when he was angry, but he spoke vehemently nevertheless. Keep it together, Ron, he pleaded with himself.

'I know that, Ron, but the Commission Advocate says the case must be reopened – as I said, new evidence has come to light, new witnesses – and it needs to be reassessed.' She added, warily.

'So? What the hell's that to do with me? Tell them to stop wasting my time, I'm not changing my statement and I'm not going to Paris to exchange snide remarks with some twat of a lawyer when things are so crucial here.' His tiredness had gone and his combative nature was now fully awake. He'd noticed she'd cavilled slightly at his jibe about lawyers. Well, screw them. Screw them all. There was going to be a storm. And there was certainly going to be a row tonight. 'You're the lawyer, Mrs Undersecretary; tell them I'm busy and to read my original testimony. They'll find it all there.' He'd turned fully around now to face her and stood, arms crossed, chin slightly lifted, glaring at his wife – the love of my life, he thought – as if she was the entire Magical Court of Human Rights, rolled up into one person. Go on. Go on, then! His stance seemed to say this to her. Go on, he thought: piss on my feast, just like you've shafted the evening – and possibly my life. Before she replied, another voice in his mind told him to stop being such a bloody fool. But it was all too late now, even for warnings.

Hermione had stayed very still during his retort; she could tell it annoyed him she was staying so calm and not immediately agreeing with him. Why should she?

'It's more serious than that, Ron.' She said calmly though the import of her words was beginning to seep into his mind and reduce his confidence. He waited for her to continue.

'Lukasz Piotrowski has been recalled from duty, commanding in the Balkans. He's been arrested; bail has been refused. Four others are all expected to give evidence: Raeker, Kerrmann, Fischer and Andrews. They may even call Harry.'

Ron's expression hadn't changed but some colour seemed to drain away; there was a look now, in the set of his eyes – fear? Ron could tell she'd spotted this.

'Andrews!? He's retired, for God's sake! Working part-time for the Spanish and Portuguese overseeing their training; he wasn't even in that area of the battle! And Harry, for fuck's sake? He was here, in Britain, in command of the Home Reserve: he only gave basic testimony originally for the opening planning stages of the campaign: his job was to secure the home front. He wasn't at Budapest.' Keep your temper, Ron, a voice soothed, from somewhere. It's not her fault, it reasoned.

'I know, Ron!' Hermione was beginning to lose hers though. 'Nevertheless, Kingsley has agreed to him being released from duties to give statements at any time, if the Court need him to do so. So, logically, you'll be called – because you were right in the middle of the battle.'

'Why now?'

His question had surprised her. 'Why what now?'

'Why now? I've several major cases coming to fruition; one in particular could seal fifteen years of…' he paused for a moment to collect himself. This was unbelievable; someone was about it! Something was wrong. 'Who's been talking to who? Okay, you've spoken to the French today and they tried to phone me – but who else? Kingsley? What other departments? Who in the foreign services has spoken to them? This hasn't just come out of nowhere!'

Hermione was surprised. Why did he seem so paranoid? And was he actually saying there's a conspiracy against him? What on earth was giving him this idea? Her thoughts must have shown on her face because Ron carried straight on, relentless.

'Don't look like that. You know how these things work; nothing happens without a reason – and somebody perhaps has waited to embarrass me, just when I'm thinking of running for…' He stopped. He'd run on. He knew it as soon as he'd said it. Well, too late now. He knew she was going to ask.

'Running for what?' She looked keenly at him. Why did he suddenly look like he'd been caught thinking something he shouldn't? Before she could decide on that idea, he seemed to come to a decision, signalling he had with a deep sigh.

'I'm now considering running for Minister next year, if Kingsley retires.'

The pause between them was so pregnant, it could have given birth to umpteen magical sets of triplets. The moment pulsated with possibilities – one of which was certainly the surprise on Hermione's part.

'Oh.' Interesting, he thought. For once, she's completely stumped. Yes, interesting response. And not necessarily positive. 'But on what platform and policies?'

'Law and order would be an obvious one!' He retorted sarcastically. If she was going to pull that _'You've never had a political idea'_ one, the conversation may be ended very quickly with him going to bed and getting on with the rest of his life.

'Oh. I see. Well, if you're serious, then –'

He interrupted her very quickly and clearly. 'Don't! Don't pretend you're not interested in running yourself, because I know you are and you've been canvassing already.' He laughed, a loud bark, when the look on her face tried to show she didn't know what he was talking about. 'I know you have! And I'm thinking of throwing my cloak in the ol'duelling ring, too.' He waited. 'Problem? This is why I've waited to mention this: politics is so often in the timings.'

'Well, no; I think we can manage any issues between the two of us in a professional fashion but the Wizengamot will ask one of us to withdraw because of an obvious clash of interests – they surely will not allow a possible choice of candidates from the same family.' She'd not moved from behind her desk where she sat but since he'd admitted his ambition, he noticed she was sat up even more and now really attending to his every reaction. Now. This is it. I've admitted this to her, he thought. I might as well get my full galleon's worth from her, tonight.

'You're the lawyer, beautiful lady; I'm sure you can write as good a withdrawal letter for your candidacy as anyone in the world, eh?' Her face was now a perfect picture of incredulity, fury and … was that lust? He wasn't sure but he could feel his own feelings for her growing by the moment. They always did this to each other. How long since they'd…? He was thinking of this momentarily when he realised she'd stood slowly up from her chair, come from behind the desk and was walking towards him, her eyes having seemingly never left his face, her expression still certainly mixed and still, most certainly, furious.

'Perhaps I can do it for you,' he decided to quip. 'What about: _she ain't doing it – now piss off!_ Right, if the bleeding inquisition is over and we've dropped enough surprises on one another, then I'll make you that cuppa?' He decided, as serious as all this was, that he just wanted to retreat somewhere, just say enough and leave it for the night. She'd reached him however.

Standing in front of him, her hands went to her hips and she looked up into his face. He'd paused and looked down into her eyes, her beautiful hazel eyes.

'I'm going to withdraw?' her voice was a whisper as if her fury could barely manage its own coordination to get out of the throat. 'You're joking, of course?'

He shook his head. 'No, I'm not, actually. You know I'd support you till the sun died, if you really – and I mean really want it – and you'd be superb, simply brilliant.' He hadn't looked away. He felt hot, awkward – somehow unfair in what he was saying, but he needed to be honest with her. 'What if I want it more than you? Eh? Or if I think I could do a better job?' Their eyes were locked with each other. God! He loved her. I struggle so much to feel anything at the moment, he thought, and here I am, face-to-face with her and it's as if we're back at school and I'm seeing her properly for the first time – and it's a glorious sight.

'Don't talk crap!' she spat. 'I know you'd be excellent but don't presume to tell me that as an Auror you'd outrank me in experience as a lawyer because –'

He tore across her retort and argument like a knife on thin paper. 'Fudge was a lawyer and Kingsley was an Auror: I've won, I think – and I rest my case.'

He could see her mind already flying through several brilliant ripostes to that but again, he was suddenly swept with a tiredness and exhaustion with the argument – he just wanted her: that's all her wanted. Time to beat her if he could.

'Listen, Hermione. Please. I'm thinking about running; that's all. I'm serious but there's time to think about it and that's all. I admire the French and I respect the international courts but I've nothing to add to the statement. They'll just have to bloody wait. And I'm going to complete all the cases, in particular, the smuggling case, this week and –'he added emphatically, 'even if it kills me, it will all be done. That's that, okay? We'll discuss the election another time, it's late, we're tired, there's so much going on and –'Their eyes hadn't left each other's the whole time. Her next question surprised him as much as his earlier one to her had.

'You have nothing to add to the Zagreb statement?' He shook his head tiredly but firmly and continued to gaze at her. 'And if they say some of the original details have been compromised, you'll still stand by it?' He nodded, keeping his eyes locked to her the whole time. 'I've nothing to worry about in your Zagreb statement, Ron?' He frowned harder. 'I'm a lawyer – in fact, I'm the Government's Lawyer, remember. I'm your wife first – but I will be pulled into this as the first law officer in the land. No lawyer enjoys a kicking in court, Ron. So, I repeat: is there anything you need to tell me?'

His expression had become even stonier. 'Why are you pushing this, Hermione?'

'Because the Advocate let slip that your testimony will be reviewed. Definitely. There are – inconsistencies – his word, not mine. You'll be called. I'm sure.' Ron didn't move. He felt again that moment of time slowing down. This was a key moment when he was being given a choice by life: choose – either or. Come on, you cowardly bastard. Choose. And hope.

'No. There's nothing more to add.' He said quietly.

'Thank you.' She whispered.

His eyes slowly dropped from hers, to settle on her lips. She seemed to sense where his attention had moved to, because her head slightly tilted to one side and she moved ever-so-slightly closer to him, her own eyes dropping to his lips…

'If I'd made that tea before, God, it would be so bloody cold now!' he rasped to her, as his head slowly lowered to hers. To capture her, to brush those lips with his, to feel her beautiful, loving touch on his; to feel the magic of this woman, this unique, wonderful … so close, so close…

A noise. A movement behind them – someone trying not to be noticed – in the hall. One of the kids. No? Could only be one of them… Rosie, as always. She couldn't help it, their clever, opinionated, clumsy daughter, trying to be quiet and still making a bloody annoying noise…

The moment was lost. Shit! They were so close; neither moved - but the moment was gone. His eyes closed. Shit! Shit! Shit! Rosie sheepishly stuck her head around the door frame.

'God, Rosie!' said Hermione with hugely drawn-out exasperation. 'God! You really pick your bloody moment. Eavesdropping is not necessarily a good virtue for a young news reporter, especially if you get caught and it's your own family! What are you doing anyway?' Rosie's head pulled her whole body around the door frame and came into the study.

'Couldn't sleep. Could hear you two, from upstairs, so decided to see if you wanted a drink, as I was getting one myself. What was all the shouting about anyway?'

'Never you bloody mind!' laughed Ron. 'Go on; bugger off to the kitchen and make your mum a cuppa. I'm to bed.' He stopped Rosie with his next words. 'And if you did hear anything, not a bloody word, alright? Or I'll pull you out of that damn job.' Rosie nodded, too tired to argue it seemed and went off to the kitchen.

Ron turned back to Hermione. He smiled down at her. 'Sorry for shouting, if I did. I'll go now so you can get on. Don't be up too late, please?' he pleaded. He paused just a little, even as he moved to go: drink her in, look at her and keep that vision in your mind. Think of her lips… think of her.

Her hands reached out and stayed him as he made to leave. 'You'd always tell me, Ron, if… if you need my help, my support… if you're in trouble? You'd never cover up or hide it away? Never?'

He'd smiled a mere moment ago but now the frown was back. He didn't speak. He found again he couldn't. He merely shook his head. He realised she would take that either way: he was refusing to answer – or he was giving her some kind of answer. However, he just left it at that. His right hand fingers found a mind of their own and he discovered them reaching up and brushing her lips and tracing her left cheek. Say it! Tell her you love her - say it. He stayed silent. He felt his fingers were showing that. _Why need more?_

He turned away and left the study. He could feel her. Her presence. Her eyes, even as he ascended the stairs to bed, boring into his back. Even when he'd be out of sight. He could feel their sight – claiming him. He could hear Rosie making tea the Muggle way in the kitchen. Hugo's door was open at the top of the landing and he could hear his gentle but persistent snores from his darkened room. He could sense other things - but he could still feel her eyes, above all, diminishing other sensations; she'd latched on to him somehow – holding him, touching him in some way – saying with her look, _you're lying and I don't know why – and you're hurting me, my love: you're hurting me._

_And are you lying to me, my love?_ He thought back.

Words of Henry Vaughan's crashed into his mind as he thought of their row. Yes, they fitted him perfectly: _The darksome states-man hung with weights and woes … condemning thoughts… scowl upon his soul … clouds of crying witnesses without pursued him with one shout._

The storm was breaking. He looked at one of the landing windows as he passed it; it was spattered with rain. Yes, he was the darksome states-man and she would pursue him. He'd lied again to her and to be sure it would find him out.

How hurt was she going to be?

He lay long in bed, waiting for her to come to bed. She had not arrived before he'd slipped into a fitful and disturbed sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: The Darksome Statesman and the Breaking Storm… Pitter Patter Go The Rain Drops.**

'How long have you known?'

He had asked the question again but the man opposite him didn't seem to want to give him the answer he so desperately needed.

'I'll ask again: how long have you known?' Ron looked down, seemingly addressing the question to his clenched fists, resting on the table; the granite-solid tone in which he'd asked again didn't suggest any confusion as to who was being addressed. He was addressing it directly across the table to his erstwhile friend and colleague, the one and only, James 'Jimmy the Ghost' Abrahams. And the reason he was addressing the question apparently to his fists was because he knew, as he knew Nifflers could find gold, that if he looked up, Jimmy would be wearing that same bloody trademark smirk and Ron would have to hit him very hard indeed. He knew Jimmy would be smirking. Clever bastard knew he so desperately wanted an answer – but Jimmy might not quite be willing to play fair Quidditch on this one.

And that would really crap in the pudding.

'Jimmy! Stop pissing about, right now, or I'll bloody kill you myself, okay!?' growled Harry, sensing Ron's steadily mounting rage. This was a game they'd played before with Mr Jimmy Abrahams and it only end usually in blood or frustration – or both. Harry meant to avoid either.

Mr Abrahams, Entrepreneur Extraordinaire Magical, as he liked to be styled, leant very, very slowly back into his chair in the booth of the expensive, upmarket Italian restaurant just off Knightsbridge, which he'd found himself in with the Chief Auror and the Chief Undersecretary for Education – for a 'quiet chat' (his words) - and didn't break eye contact with the Chief Auror, not once.

The smirk had gone though and, by way of an answer, casually picking up a brown envelope from the chair beside him, he tossed it on to the table. He nodded towards the envelope, clearly signalling. _Open it_.

Harry narrowed his eyes at the man opposite but tore the brown flap open and pulled the contents out. A set of unmoving Muggle photographs were before them, black and white images, and with a very keen, acute focus Harry began to spread them out.

'See anyone you recognise?' Jimmy Abrahams asked quietly, still looking directly at Ron.

Ron's gaze had frozen on the photographs.

Yes.

Yes, he did.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Storms Brewing And Old Friends – Old Enemies: What's The Difference?**

He felt like some great building that has stood for ever. Its foundations seem to go down to the very core of the earth and all the people think this was how it is for ever… and will be… the building would be there for ever…

And then Jimmy Abrahams appears like some sodding Muggle demolition expert and with just a few black and white images rocked those foundations and the building above till nothing, _nothing_ would be left. Ron knew this had been coming. Yesterday had merely suggested it: the images confirmed it.

Ron thought back. _Some shadow, always on the edge of his sight, murky and taunting…_

'Why are you showing me these?' Ron asked quietly. He hadn't moved. Not an inch.

'Interesting, aren't they?' Abrahams smiled slightly. He hadn't moved either, since Harry had spread the four images out on the table surface.

'I don't understand…' Harry stated, staring hard at the images, then Abrahams and then Ron.

'Oh, you will, Harry; you will.' Abrahams replied. 'Shall I begin?' He focused on Ron for some kind of signal; Ron remained completely still. 'I'll take that as a yes. I'll ask again, if you don't mind: are we completely discrete, as I requested?'

_Harry had approached Ron the previous evening at the Annual Governmental Garden Party to ask him to talk with Abrahams. Harry had suggested their usual meeting place: Booth Four, La Bella, just off Knightsbridge. The restaurant's Booth Four had, over the years, been used as a magical holding cell, conference room, planning centre, drinking salon and a place where superb linguini was devoured by one Ronald Weasley. Usual protocols - full anti-detection and illusion charms; otherwise, just a normal eating hole, with admittedly a very expensive bill attached – but the linguini was really fabulous: give the appearance of a business meeting over a late breakfast or early lunch and no-one was the wiser. And now here they were, after Abrahams' initial approach to Harry._

'_Tell Ron not to be a prat about this; I'll be the last person he'll want to see, especially as he thinks I'm responsible for the four-fifths of the magical crime in South London – ' Abrahams' voice sounded slightly metallic coming through the small Muggle device._

'_That's because you are, Jimmy,' replied Harry evenly._

'_Prove it, Potter!' Harry could hear the smirk in Abrahams' voice as he said it. Then the tone had changed. 'Just mention three things, Harry: Manchester. Birmingham. The Parish Hotel.' Harry had told Ron later there was a pause as if Abrahams was letting Harry register the importance of what he'd just told him. 'He'll want to see me, I can guarantee it, Harry.' Harry had been none-the-wiser – he'd studied Ron carefully as he'd repeated the 'three things' to him in the idyllic garden setting of some undersecretary's ancestral pile, near Windsor. _

_Ron had tried to appear impassive but he'd given something away when he'd turned fully a little too quickly to face Harry as the other reported Abrahams' request. He pulled Harry slowly to one side away from any prying ears._

'_Okay. Can you ring him? Ten, tomorrow morning; usual place for us – I'll want you there if you can, as some kind of witness to whatever it is that bastard wants!' muttered Ron._

'The booth is sealed for any kind of sensory detection; the restaurant operates as normal – we can order food, drink, be at our ease – but we can discuss any business, even the most sensitive, in complete secrecy. We'll appear to be just businessmen sharing some food or whatever; very relaxed and simple.' Harry stated.

'Excellent! Excellent! But always pays to be safe.' smiled Abrahams back at Harry and Ron, as he quickly and efficiently twirled his wand to reinforce with extra charms. 'Now we can all relax.'

Ron looked down at the images.

There were four pictures. Four pictures, each one with a different man in, but only the one woman. She was in all the images. She was sitting down. So were the men.

All of the men could be described as attractive – tall, athletic; one in particular would be seen as extremely handsome, perhaps. At least, Ron would think that if he was a woman.

If he was the particular woman in the picture?

They seemed to be in deep discussion over coffee. What could it be? Discussing the weather? Share prices? Please come and see my family next weekend? Who was next to be murdered? Where was the body? Should they carry on the affair?

It just looked like the usual carry-on of human life. Except he knew them. All of them. All these people carrying-on…

An affair?

'So, Ron,' Abrahams began smoothly, 'before I answer your original question, would you care to make a wild guess as to why I have four images of your beautiful wife meeting four different men in secret?'

Ron felt the chill that seemed to be grabbing his heart spread across his chest and out to his very extremities.

He'd not moved. He couldn't. He must say something. The only thought: _Some shadow, always on the edge of his sight, murky and taunting…_

Harry didn't seem to be in any malaise.

'Now, wait just one-fucking-minute, Jimmy! What the hell are you implying?' he raged quietly, his voice steely in its tone, the intensely quiet fury of his outburst matching the glare in his expression. 'Come on, Jimmy! Enough of this shit: out with it or I swear I'll – '

Ron's left arm shot out, the hand spread wide, as if to physically force Harry back into his seat where he was threatening to explode outwards violently in the general direction of the again-smirking James 'Jimmy the Ghost' Abrahams. His arm didn't make contact but it worked. Harry sat back. Ron had stopped him.

_Some shadow, always on the edge of his sight, murky and taunting…_

_The shadow terrified him. He'd wanted to catch it and destroy it – but he'd never actually wanted to know what it was that he couldn't quite catch – that knowledge would kill him, he was sure – a living death, a dementor's kiss: no, just catch it, kill it and bury it all deep. _

And forget it.

That wasn't going to happen now. Ever. Thanks to that bastard, Jimmy Abrahams.

Well, let's play the game. Jimmy had made the first move. Now it was his turn.

'Let's hear what he has to say,' said Ron.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Old Friends – Old Enemies: New Difference.**

'_Let's hear what he has to say,' said Ron._

'Bravo, Ron, bravo!' chuckled Abrahams. 'Playing chess with me again, eh, Ron? Just like old times. Well, the opening moves are done so let's charge straight into the main battle. How long have I known, you asked?'

Harry had settled back into his chair; his expression was hard and set. Ron slowly withdrew his left arm from Harry now he was slightly reassured he wouldn't launch himself at Jimmy again, and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, joining his fingers together under his chin and moving his gaze from the man on the other side of the table and the images in front of him. Okay, Ron thought. Okay. Opening spell castings done, opening moves made – time for a diversionary tactic just to test the enemy's strength – draw him out a little…

Ignore the images. Look past the literal, Ron thought. He remembered, _'See Ron; see what we've found!' his father would exclaim. 'Deeper and hidden, Ron; deeper and hidden, eh?' _Yes – deeper and hidden…

'Before we begin the 'main battle', as you put it so eloquently – and I probably end up jamming my queen up your rook's arse, Jimmy,' Ron said this with a deliberately relaxed air but his eyes pierced into the other man's. 'I need you to understand that whatever you think you've got that is so incredibly important that you display images of my own wife so openly before me and make such insinuations and ask such questions, it had better be worth the risk you're running. You were a very calculating chess player, as I remember, Jimmy; you weigh everything up – there's strategy there but you pick and fuss on moves as well and select you options carefully. So, I hope you've selected the right one here.' Here Ron paused momentarily, but the tension in what he was saying and how he was saying it felt like a mountain had paused in sliding down upon itself. 'If this is shit and you've used my wife, I'll suspend all our operations – ALL operations – worldwide, if necessary – and put those resources against you. I will finish you, your associates, allies and all your little empires - in one day – just one day. I'll destroy you – understood?' Harry had been steely, cold and lethal when Abrahams spoke of Hermione; with Ron, it felt like the whole weight of the building they sat in, the street it was located in, its district, indeed the whole city had turned into his words and was a kind of crushing weight projected at the man opposite.

Abrahams looked levelly back at Ron. 'Agreed.' He said simply. 'For my part, I need you to understand something too. There is more here and I've weighed the risks and they're acceptable. What I have to share with you will need an understanding from you, too.'

'What kind of understanding?' Harry asked.

'I've a great deal to share but this is also my insurance, okay? These are obviously copies – of a great deal of other information. That information will remain safe, I swear – but in return for my sharing, and it'll be worth the wait, I can assure you – I need you to promise me,' he paused, picking the right word, 'certain liberties, in what you've planned, Ron – believe me, there's more – you need me.'

'What's he talking about, Ron?'

Ron breathed in deeply, leaning back again, seemingly ignoring Harry's question; looking at Abrahams.

'Agreed, Jimmy. Let's begin the 'main battle' then, eh?' He relaxed back into the seat. He turned to Harry. 'You'll be witness, okay and see I keep my word.' He looked back over the table at Abrahams. 'If this bastard's double-crossed me, you're my second – and you can do what-the-hell you like with him. Right, Jimmy: what's so important?'

'You asked how long I've known. One year. The pictures you have in front of you are a mere selection of many thousands taken over that period. The last one,' he indicated the furthest image on his right, 'was taken yesterday. She's spoken on a regular basis with all these men: regular time slots, similar points of the week, yes? A pattern builds. Why should I care, you ask?' Abrahams was acting almost like a lawyer, opening his hands wide as if to say no blood on my hands, nothing to do with me – and they were his friendly jury, already on his side of the argument.

Harry shifted slightly in his chair; Ron could tell he was becoming impatient with Abrahams but Ron carefully and unobtrusively put a reassuring hand on Harry's arm: be calm, it said, we made a deal – let's hear him out. Harry sat still again.

'Well, Ron,' Abrahams continued, 'I care, because as you know very well, I own a controlling stake in the Parish Hotel, one of the biggest Muggle and Magical conference centres in Europe. We manage a huge operation, superbly controlled, even if I say it myself, by our team and we regularly have many important meetings held there – so to see the Undersecretary for Justice and Legal Administration having a coffee once is nothing remarkable. Except it begins to happen more often.' He pauses carefully. Ron knows he's got their attention now. 'A pattern begins to build up; certain days and times – my team – how can I put this?' He paused again, seeming to Ron to be nothing less than the calculating chess player he had taken on during their Auror training, all those years ago. They laughed and smiled at each other then, as they played. Sad. No-one was laughing or smiling now.

'All my places are, as the Muggles put it, bugged. Not just the Parish – all of them. Obviously for security firstly. Most of the charms and incantations plus Muggle devices are never used because we always check any and all customers, whether they're from Her Majesty's Government or our own august Ministry of Magic – Hermione would be pleased, Ron – we comply fully with regulation – except,' here he looked to the side, a slightly evasive look on his face, 'when I need something or we have a problem. Many deals go down in my hotels and clubs: it pays to know and I want to know everything. But overall, we use that information sparingly. I aim to protect my interests from my rivals – nothing more.'

'So, for purely security reasons, such as the Undersecretary for Justice drinking coffee in one of my foyers, we turn things on. As I said, the information collected is either securely stored or destroyed, usually the latter, once it's been checked. And there the matter would've rested - but for the fact that about a year ago your best mate here, Harry, began to put undercover surveillance into the Parish – but he didn't tell the Security Committee, did you, Ron?'

Harry said nothing.

'How do you know this, supposing you're correct?' Ron returned.

'I've my ways. The Ministry's not as full-proof as you lot think you've made it. You had to tell them in the end – few days back, no? Bit late, don't you think? I'll admit you were subtle, Ron. Surveillance to a minimum. Not every day. Only one or two high grade Aurors at time, completely undercover and they're only supposed to be looking for… for what, exactly, Ron? Were you still trying to catch me out?' Jimmy chuckled quietly to himself. 'You know, _'Chief Auror finally catches The Ghost: Crime World in Ruins' _– or some such bollocks headline in your mate, Edwards' rag, The Daily Prophet? He'd love it if you'd got me – the Hufflepuff wanker!'

Abrahams paused again for a reaction. Harry said nothing. Ron merely tilted his head slightly, as if conceding the point…

'But no, you were more subtle still. You're after very big fish indeed, aren't you, Ron. If you get me for anything, great. Wonderful result! But I'm not _the _fish you're after, am I? And on your way to reaching your goal, your surveillance inadvertently pick up some – _fishy_, shall we say? Poor joke: let's use it. Fishy details on your wife? Not much – but enough to arouse that famous Weasley jealousy. What the hell is she doing there? With him? Fine: there could be meetings scheduled – but you check diaries and – I'm just guessing now, Ron, but they're very good guesses, I think – no meetings there – yes? What the hell is going on, you think? And you're really torn. I would be, God knows. I love my wife and trust her utterly. So, what would I think in your shoes?'

'So, you're upping the surveillance and getting some very confusing answers – and it all seems such a piece of bloody bad luck, because you've discovered this major link to a puzzle you've been struggling with for the better part of twenty years – and it could be the final link for you – with Birmingham and Manchester – and an old story…' Abrahams paused again.

Ron didn't know what to say. The guesses were brilliant. He'd wondered at first how the hell Jimmy known but as he'd spoken it had all become so clear. And he should have guessed. Jimmy had been one of the best Auror trainees of his generation twenty years ago: clever, brave, cunning, charismatic – in a way quite brilliant, till money turned his head. There were always risks with this operation; everyone had been watching everything and with a combination of bad luck he'd been trying to discover one thing and instead found others – others he didn't want to find.

'Did you think she was having an affair, Ron?' Abrahams' question jolted him out of his reverie. 'Did you?' Jimmy repeated quietly. Ron pondered what to say. He'd made a deal with this man but to open himself up… with Harry here?

Ron could only nod his head slightly. He felt he was betraying her… admitting this. How could he doubt her? He'd only seen one report of her with another man: Howard, one of his Aurors, her security detail, in fact: the very good looking one. A man he'd actually picked. How could he doubt her? You shit, Ronald Weasley. This was all your fault. He remembered that line from The Pallisers that Hermione's father kept quoting to him once, during one very-drunken heart-to-heart many years ago between the two of them – about life, women and their wives. _We doubt and are doubted in our turn. We must bear it, with dignity._ Harry hadn't moved but it was him who spoke up when the silence that followed began to be unbearable and Ron didn't move but just stared at the pictures.

'And is she?' he said quietly. 'Having an affair?'


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Dangerous News.**

'_And is she?' he said quietly. 'Having an affair?'_

Abrahams stared back at them, then looked down suddenly at the photographs. Then, as quickly, he looked up and held Ron's gaze.

'No. No, she isn't.'

Ron tried to hold the breath in but he just couldn't hold the relief back and let out a long, sighing exhalation. At the same time, Harry moved again in his seat and, almost as if it was his turn, placed a reassuring hand on Ron's left arm.

'But she's doing something equally stupid.' Abrahams' statement interrupted their relief like a slap to the cheek. 'She's involved herself in potentially the most dangerous situation in our times – and she's doing it all to protect you, Ron.' Ron looked up swiftly from where he'd been contemplating the images again. 'Yes, she's in very grave danger, Ron.' Abrahams pulled another photograph from by his side and placed it on the table. He drew it towards Harry and himself to have a clearer look: Hermione, walking – again a still Muggle image – Howard again, a step or two behind her, clearly on duty, observing, alert – somewhere near to the British Museum? Ron knew that part of Muggle London very well, he'd lived briefly off the Euston Road – but to the highly-trained eye, even in a still image, they were clearly being followed, Howard seemingly had not yet picked that up when the photograph was taken. Did he spot it at all? Far back, in the background, but clearly intent on their quarry, a figure, following like an angler with a fish on the line…

'Why were you tailing her? Why the photographs?' Harry asked.

'When we began surveillance it was just routine. My people are amongst the best outside of the Auror Service itself and know how to be unobtrusive, shall we say. They are superb at concealment. Over time, we noticed at the Parish, two figures, trying very hard not to be noticed; one of them was certainly Auror-trained as it took us some time to pick that one up; the other not so good, but trying very hard not to be noticed – but we'd been watching over weeks and obviously we began to notice them more and more.'

'So why are they there? What has this to do with Hermione? Why do you think she is in danger?' Ron's mind was racing.

'Because of who your wife's been talking too and what they've been talking about.'

'How do you know this?' Ron demanded.

'Ah, there you really have me.' Abrahams replied. 'Usually we destroy what we don't need and anyway I'm sure you're thinking how the hell we can process all the information so quickly? My team have developed a kind of mini-potion – we can reduce down through a form of magical distillation any recording, information, image, photograph, speech – you ask me, we can do it. It's taken orally and within a few seconds you have a clear comprehension of what may be many hours of filming or many hundreds of images or many, many hours of overheard conversation – Muggle recorded or magically so. Would you like me to demonstrate?' Abrahams produced a small phial and held it up for them to see. In it various strands of what Ron could only describe as colours were slowly swirling around; it should be a pure mess of ingredients but by some magical process the strands remained clearly defined and separate in their slow, steady movement.

'These are the memory strands; works a bit like a mini-pensieve but we extract the strands, take a mere drop with some food and – there you are. By doing this, I am able to process literally thousands of pieces of information – conversations, pictures, anything I need in the tiniest fraction of the time it would take a whole brigade of Aurors to do the same. Let me show you; I'll use that photograph and I'll speak my thoughts directly to you.'

He pointed to the photograph on his left. Hermione speaking to John Howard. He placed the phial on the table and tapped the side gently whilst looking intently at it. The stopper magically changed, small perforations opening in the top.

'Just summoning the relevant information.' What seemed the merest thread of gold, about half-an-inch, sinuously came up through one of the stopper's holes and latched on to a very small piece of pasta Abrahams was holding between his left hand thumb and forefinger. He paused. 'You've guessed the reason, I'm sure, why I'm showing Muggle-style images first?'

'You have a vast range of information, using all available formats – and Muggle images can be sealed magically to ensure they can't be tampered with, correct?' said Ron.

'Brilliant, Ron,' replied Abrahams. 'The Muggle images are genuine – tap them with your wands for any transfiguration at all…' Harry and Ron did this: nothing – they were genuine. 'This is the next stage of our deal; I didn't know fully how you'd react to my news… I hope that point will begin to make you realise I'm in earnest? Can we now proceed?' He waited for their response. Both Harry and Ron nodded: continue.

'Okay, I'll go first to demonstrate. I'll swallow the food; it will react almost instantaneously. On this occasion, I will use trance-like methods to communicate and through that by placing my wand on the photograph, you'll be able to see the conversation in real time. The image and the memory are linked intrinsically so they will react together. Otherwise nothing will change; the picture remains genuine. It can be used full in court, for example.' he added, pointedly. They nodded their understanding again.

Abrahams swallowed the food, placing his left hand, holding his wand, on to the picture. Almost immediately a change came over him. Sitting very still, his eyes slowly closed but his mouth began to move; a kind of low humming noise was coming from him. Then, almost as quickly as it began, the humming stopped. The image came alive, the people in the photograph moving like any normal magical image would do and voices began to emanate, seemingly from Abrahams' moving mouth.

Ron and Harry followed the conversation between Howard and Hermione. Ron inwardly gripped himself to be firm. Whatever was revealed needed to be confronted. However painful it might prove… Howard was speaking animatedly to Hermione; he seemed panicked.

'_He's called twice. He's desperate for some kind of protection but he says you're the only person he can go to. That you'll understand. He thinks the Chief Auror will simply make him disappear if he goes directly to him for help.' _Ron looked quizzically at Harry: what the hell did that mean? Is that what people really think he'd do, if pushed?

'_Ron would never do that! No, tell him it is better if he simply stays put and out of sight, yes. We mustn't panic. His testimony will be vital and he's the only new link we have to revealing where they have their main base. If we lose him, it's back to square one. Tell him I'll guarantee full protection from the Justice Department and our own officers if he can – '_

'_He says it'll never work. That they'll have spotted his absence by now and they'll be moving quickly to finalise everything. The paintings are going to be moved in the next month or two. But Parry says it won't matter for him – because he'll already be dead, killed either by our incompetence or their hatred. Either way, he says he's fucked! Sorry, Undersecretary, but I'm really beginning to hate this bastard! He says screw you and his testimony – it won't matter.' _Parry? Parry!? Ron turned quickly to Harry. Their eyes met and voicelessly they asked the same question: Jacob Parry? He hadn't been seen for at least – what, ten years?'

'_John, I'm very grateful to you, for how you are helping me and our department in this but we must remain professional and calm. Tell him to stay put. You'll be his only contact so as long as we're not compromised, he's safe.' _Ron couldn't help chuckling to himself; God bless Hermione - heated conversation and she still worries over professional standards and language!

'_He's scared to death, Undersecretary. Keeps saying WAF will get him and then we'll all be bloody sorry. Says that WAF is going to make the world pay and – ' _

'_If we maintain all the agreed procedures, John, he'll be safe for the time being, whilst we make the next… arrangements; he's as safe as anyone can be with our top security – not even Fothergill can touch him there – ' _

Abrahams had stopped. Ron and Harry only realised this when they both saw the image had ceased moving. Looking back up, Abrahams was staring back at them; his expression seemed unreadable.

'Thought we'd stop there; that was the most relevant part.' Ron and Harry stared at him.

Harry was the first to reply. 'That can't be right.' His voice gasped, his expression deeply troubled. 'He's… he's… gone…'

'Gone? Yes, that's what I thought.' replied Abrahams slowly. 'Or I did till two months ago, when I heard the very surprising mention of one Jacob Parry, general all-round low-life but admittedly genius potion maker, apparently disappeared these ten years - '

'No! Parry's surprising enough!' interrupted Harry vehemently. 'I meant –'

'Yes,' said Abrahams quietly. His answer was directed at Harry, but he was looking at Ron. Ron hadn't moved.

'William Aloysius Fothergill.'

Abrahams enunciated the words very slowly and clearly as if to make sure there could be no mistake in what he'd just said. As he spoke them, he seemed to both relish their sound as well as find them distinctly distasteful to even mention.

'He's dead.' Harry flatly stated and looked between Abrahams and Ron. During all this, Jimmy Abrahams had remained looking at Ron, even when answering Harry's questions.

'No, he's not, Harry,' replied Abrahams. His voice remained quiet and he remained gazing directly over the table at Ron Weasley – and this time it was his gaze that pierced into the seemingly impassive man sitting opposite him.

'Is he, Ron?' he asked – but it didn't sound like a question.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: A Real Fury.**

Jimmy continued to stare at Ron. Waiting for Ron to reply.

'William Aloysius Fothergill, thought to be dead for fifteen years, is alive and well and living somewhere in central Manchester.'

No-one said anything else for a full minute.

Harry looked between Ron and Jimmy. They didn't seem to notice his need for answers. They just sat and stared at each other.

'Let me get this straight, Ron,' said Harry slowly. 'You've just admitted that William Aloysius Fothergill, one of the cruellest, most vicious followers of Tom Riddle; a psychopath, megalomaniac; a lying, cheating… a pitiful excuse for a human being; a piece of utter rat-filth, is living – free and at liberty?'

Jimmy turned his gaze to Harry. The smirk was in place.

'I don't like him either, Harry – Fothergill, that is; I like 'rat-filth' – that's a new one, but a very appropriate description.'

'How long have you known, Ron?' Harry asked, ignoring Jimmy.

Ron looked down at the photographs.

Abrahams replied for him. 'He's known as long as I have, Harry. Interesting first question, Ron – the one you asked a while back: _how long have you known?_ Harry obviously thought it meant about your suspicions about Hermione? But you and I both know it actually meant, how long I have known you were trying to finally, _finally,_ get Fothergill. And, but for your brilliant wife and me luckily catching a break with her conversations, I may never have known … but for… 'He paused.

'What?' asked Harry.

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Harry. You know that is never how Aurors build an investigation. Let's clear the way first with the beautiful Hermione Granger-Weasley and see where we are. Here, take some food.' He offered them the bread basket. They each took a piece. He tapped the memory phial again. This time not one but several strands of colour moved up through the perforated stopper. 'Hold the bread here.' Abrahams pointed to a place in the centre of the table. As before, as if they were living things and sensed the food, the memory strands slowly latched on to the bread pieces, three in all now as Abrahams offered a bread piece to the mingling strands too. 'Okay, gentlemen. These memories contain the rest of the conversations Hermione had; many hours over the months but this method will break it down. I'll count to three, we swallow at the same time; it will take about ten seconds. Then we talk. One, two, three.'

Harry had seemed hesitant to swallow the bread. Ron just looked at him. The look said: _we're doing it_. Jimmy laughed quietly. 'Don't worry, Harry. There're no bad trips here; the badness is in what you're going to find out. Ready? One, two, three.' Looking at each other, they put the bread in their mouths at the same time, chewed quickly and swallowed.

_Ron was struck immediately how brilliant this technique was. He had no conscious remembrance of moving from one state to another. He'd simply swallowed the memories and the next split second he was sitting next to Hermione in one of the busy coffee shops in the huge main concourse of the Parish Hotel. Just like a pensieve memory, you could perceive everything around you in perfect clarity including so many details you wouldn't normally be consciously aware of; for example, all the people milling around, chatting, drinking, guests booking in, booking out over at the central desk – things you might not normally pay attention too, unless you'd been trained to see that, of course. Amazing clarity: this was something he must have from Jimmy. He realised it would come at a very hefty price for the licence._

_His wife's voice brought him out of his thoughts. Opposite her was one of the men in the Muggle photographs, one Lawrence Rees, quite a high-up and powerful official in Budgets and Magical Appropriations and the man who'd 'oiled the wheels', as Muggles say, on several occasions for Ron. Shit, thought Ron: she's found the fucking money…_

'_Lawrence, if you don't tell me what I need to know in one minute, I'm going to have your department crawling with so many Justice Investigators and Auditors you'll think your worst nightmare has come true. I'll pull the accounts apart like a very interesting Arithmancy problem or like a very tender and slowly cooked chicken leg: your choice. Am I making myself fucking clear? Because you'll be the bloody chicken!' God, thought Ron. Rees must have really pissed her off on this occasion. She hardly ever swears._

'_You wouldn't dare!' Rees glared at Hermione; his eyes said he wasn't going to do as she wanted but he'd begun to sweat profusely._

'_You bloody well try me, Rees! I've so much shit on you, your grandchildren's' grandchildren will be graduating from Hogwarts by the time you get out of Azkaban when I've finished with you. You're a grade A shit and if it wasn't for the likes of me, you'd be dead years ago, one Muggle-born to another, seeing how the previous regime viewed people like us – or have you forgotten Voldemort already while you've been lining your pockets, you snivelling little hypocrite?' Ron noticed Rees' aggression had evaporated. 'Yes, never mind the fact I want information on what public money you've given over to my husband's department, we could discuss the ten-bedroomed mansion you've got hidden away in deepest, darkest Hampshire? Where the money came from for that? You're a department secretary – important job, but they don't make that much money – do they?' _

_Ron looked over at his wife. Her negotiating style was famously calm, clear and conciliatory; get them onside, make the opposition feel good about themselves even as they lose the argument – she'd have made one hell of a magical poker player. But bludgeon them into submission? Heavy irony, weighing as much as a small town!? Sarcasm, dripping off every word, like fresh blood in a Muggle abattoir? Direct threats? Swearing? No, that was more his style when required. She must want Rees' cooperation very badly indeed._

'_God Almighty! You fucking Weasleys! That's the same line of bullshit the Chief Auror pulled ten years ago!' Rees was now waving his wand, charming himself cooler and removing the nervous sweat. Hermione laughed, drawing the attention of some of the other customers. Ron knew what a good choice the Parish made for this kind of meeting: hundreds of people around, lots of movement, other famous and important people passing through each hour – they would blend in, however heated the argument got – just another business disagreement over a coffee – there were plenty of those going on all the time in a location like this: Rees' unhappiness would hardly be cared about._

_Hermione smiled sweetly and triumphantly at Rees' comment. 'Then you'll know we're not fooling.' The smile disappeared. 'Because it worked, didn't it?'_

_Hermione now sat very still, looking coldly at the man opposite. 'You will give me full details of all accounts and budgets in one hour by secure owl - in one hour. Here and now you will give me a full verbal summary report on what has been spent and how OR you'll be seeing the inside of a cell in forty-five minutes.' As she said this last part, she deliberately looked over Rees' shoulder. Rees turned and followed her gaze. Unnoticed till now by Rees, Ron spotted John Howard standing forty feet away leaning in the shadow of a hotel column; he was glaring at Rees as if he was someone who'd just robbed his grandmother._

_Rees turned back around. Ron noticed the expression on his face: never had he seen a look that signalled complete defeat. _

'_Alright,' sighed Rees. 'Total expenditure over the last ten years for operations in Manchester, Birmingham and London now exceeds half-a-million galleons. This includes the setting up and maintenance of anti-apparation wards in most of the central districts of Manchester and Birmingham and the buying up of apparation rights in all three main cities. We've managed to recoup and hide the expenditure because in the process of creating these secret accounts certain moneys have been passed on to Gringotts for high interest returns and then split between the Bank and the Ministry – the interest is then put back into Auror operations; others have been recouped through the mass confiscation of criminals' property under the Emergency Laws of 2008. The operation is made to look like a typical sweep for criminality; criminals are caught, property confiscated, fines set. This has been possible because the anti-apparation wards have enabled the Chief Auror to control movement in the central districts of both Manchester and Birmingham and large areas of London, often trapping criminals in these areas, making apprehension relatively easy. Their assets are then appropriated by the Ministry. Or they are drawn back into our employ, trapping bigger fish as they say, through acting as our spies and informants, increasing the operation's returns. We also have a very profitable side-budget where we use the operation to secretly liaise with the Muggle Law and Justice services to help them catch major Muggle felons. This has proved very successful financially. The overall operation is now almost self-financing. Half-a-million over ten years and we've recouped over four hundred and fifty thousand galleons; hence our ability to hide the budgets in terms of the actual figures. The differences can be hidden in other budgets. We estimate another six months to one year and we will be fully in profit – and no-one will know. The Chief Auror will be happy because he has had the money to pursue his long-term aims and the Ministry will be happy because it will not cost them a penny in the end. And lots of major criminals will be in prison, off the streets, making money for us or going out of business. That's all I know.' _

_Rees' voice had taken on a monotone quality; this was the voice of a magical accountant, caught in the act and now professionally expiating his 'sins'. Ron looked at Hermione as she focused closely on what the official was confessing. _

'_What is the operation called? Is that its main purpose?' Hermione probed._

'_We in Budgets and Magical Appropriations were told in no uncertain terms not to enquire what the real purpose of the expenditure was for. If I'd done that, my department head made it clear I could kiss my pension goodbye,' Rees paused, 'and the one time I met your husband, Mrs Granger-Weasley, he promised he'd personally bury me with my …my extra earnings, shall we say.'_

'_And you really have no other reason why this money was used and the accounts hidden?' Hermione pushed him harder for more information._

'_No!' sighed Rees in exasperation. 'I've told you. Our job is to keep the accounts in surplus, process all criminal confiscations as efficiently as possible to make maximum profits to put back into the operations and not to let any,' here Ron saw Rees look very pointedly at Hermione, ' know-it-all, bloody snooping elf-lover find out!' he finally spat at her. Any other time, Ron would have happily punched Rees for speaking to Hermione like that. Today he just looked grimly at the situation shown to him; Rees was working for him. In this memory, his wife had bludgeoned top-secret information out of the man – some of Ron's top-secret information. What the hell were Jimmy and Harry making of all this? _

_God, it was going to be some talk when they'd be finished with these memories. Darksome statesman, indeed! He realised he'd have to be completely straight with Harry and Jimmy when they talked this through. He just hoped he'd got some operation left after all of Hermione's investigations…_

_Ron was brought back to the conversation by Rees' furious retorts to Hermione's continuing questions. 'No, I don't – at all. All we were told by the Chief Auror is it had been agreed originally by the Minister, that it was a special long-term operation and must be concealed somehow within the general Law and Order and Justice Expenditure. Any breaking of this code and we'd be sacked immediately. He threatened to make us keep Unbreakable Vows. Thank God! Our department head said that wouldn't be necessary and he'd vouch for us. Your husband can be a very intimidating man when he wants to be.'_

_Hermione didn't seem to pick up on the last comment but now relaxed back into her chair. She took a slow sip of her coffee then looked back at Rees._

'_I'm sure he had his reasons. Thank you, Mr Rees. I want that full report in my hand in one hour or I will destroy your career and reveal you for the appalling, greedy, lying hypocrite you are and bury you in Azkaban.' Rees had risen from his seat, white-faced and ashen; even the cooling charm was failing to help him keep his composure – Ron could see the man was terrified at what Hermione had just said to him. She'd stated it with a very simple finality to it: do this, it said, or else. Ron couldn't believe how his wife was behaving: what had happened to cause this change in her behaviour. He knew she hated corruption and cheating but Rees was really just a typical example of an official 'crook': Ron had caught him with his 'hands in the till' and had used that to his advantage years before. Rees had proved very useful to the operation and had done a superlative job, the accounts had been kept secret – till now. Even Hermione could appreciate that. So why was she talking to him like he was Lucius Malfoy and adopting tactics that her less-picky husband would happily use when someone particularly despicable was frustrating him?_

_The same thoughts seemed to have occurred to Rees. He stood looking down at Hermione, across the table. It seemed like there was an ocean's width of understanding between them._

'_Why are you doing this to me? I'm just following orders. I've not harmed anyone,' he stopped for a moment, 'and the money I've… borrowed, can always be got back and repaid… it's not fair that I should be –' Don't say that, thought Ron, but too late: Hermione's voice next to him cut across the pleading man's desperation._

'_You're right in a way, Mr Rees; you're just another high-powered, corrupt official, doing his job and feathering his nest at the same time.' Hermione's response seemed relaxed, calm, and placatory. 'BUT,' here Ron felt a steely, rock-hard chill return to her tone, 'unfortunately for you, you are mixed up in something far bigger – and far more serious and dangerous than a few charges of corruption and misappropriation of funds. I'll let you into a little secret, Rees. Someone is threatening the life of my husband.' Her voice did not rise one iota in volume – in fact she became slightly quieter - but it felt to Ron, as it must to do in some way to Rees, Ron thought, that she could be proclaiming this from the top of the dome of St Paul's Cathedral for all the world to sit up and listen and her eyes seemed to bore into the man opposite. 'Someone is threatening the lives of my children, my family and my friends. Someone is threatening our way of life for which we have already paid such a high and unfair price to gain. Were you at the Battle of Hogwarts, Rees? No, I know you weren't. So don't you dare question my methods. When it comes to my husband, my family, the world we have striven so hard to build into a place where people can live in peace and seek for their own happiness, I'll do pretty much anything to protect that. So, get me your report or find out for sure just what I'll do…' She stared at him, her voice dripping with an utterly bewildering power and resolve though she'd spoken quietly and calmly and she left the parting promise of the threat hanging in the air between them._

_Ron looked with awe at his wife. She couldn't hear him, he knew but it didn't stop him saying out loud, 'I love you.' Her eyes remained on Rees, who realising he was being dismissed, simply nodded and turned on his heel to walk quickly away. As he passed John Howard he didn't turn to acknowledge the Auror but Howard glared at him as he approached and kept his eyes staring hard at the man as he passed. Ron thought Rees couldn't help but be aware of this gaze but he kept his head slightly down and walked on – no doubt, to quickly gather his detailed report on the budgets and get it to Hermione's fair hand before his life and career turned to complete and utter shit. _

_Howard had now walked over to Hermione whose gaze had not once wavered from following Rees' dwindling figure. Her eyes remained concentrated on Rees' back, as Howard reached the table and spoke to her._

'_So he bought the threat then? The plan worked. At least, Undersecretary, you used the Azkaban idea but I know you'd never do it. Fantastic bluff, if I may pay you the compliment.' He smiled._

_Sitting where he was, Ron noticed the slightly too-familiar way Howard was treating his wife and it irked him. Hermione said nothing at first in response. She just sat, watching the now empty space where Rees had been. _

_Howard obviously began to feel uncomfortable. Looking down on Hermione's trim, compact and beautifully-dressed figure, it seemed to Ron he needed some kind of reassurance about what they'd planned for the conversation that had just finished. Just how far would she go? 'You… you wouldn't, would you… Undersecretary?' he asked, a slightly more nervous, half-smile on his face._

_Hermione slowly looked up at Howard; the look hadn't changed from when she'd parted with Rees. Howard's half-smile had now changed into a kind of rictus grin. It reminded Ron of the look on the face of a dead Death Eater he'd seen killed at Budapest. One of the many he'd seen killed at Budapest._

_And Ron knew the young Auror had just got his answer._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: The Storm Builds Again.**

_Ron didn't notice the change from one memory to the next. He'd describe it like everything going black and then the lights coming back on; it was a simple as that, he thought to himself, as once more he was in the Parish Hotel._

_Ron realised straightaway this was a different memory. Same place, same exact location – coffee shop, busy atmosphere again but the light quality was darker; say, maybe late afternoon, Ron thought. Different time. And date?_

_He sat in the same seat as before, Hermione next to him. Yes, different date; she wore a navy blue two piece business suit. Ron tried going through his mind for times she'd worn that suit. A very long guess but worth a try. However, he couldn't clearly remember any exact dates._

_Whilst he thought, he looked over the notes Hermione was concentrating on, laid out in front of her on the table. Nothing remarkable there. Lists of case dates, due times for lodging appeals – usual Justice paper work. Both he and Hermione looked up from the papers at the same moment. Their attention was captured by a polite cough. A man stood before them. Forties, tall; well-dressed, still trim and something of an athletic build remaining under the well-cut formal robes; sandy-haired, thinning slightly; the face handsome with an open and frank expression on it. Nicholas Duval, one of Ron's deputies in Foreign Affairs Magical In Europe. She's being nothing if not thorough, thought Ron, looking at his wife: she's really picking over what may quickly become the carrion of this operation and my career. _

_Hermione had stood up, offering her hand. Duval shook it carefully; so you're wary, then, thought Ron: good boy… let's see what happens._

'_Thank you for coming, Mr Duval.' She let go of his hand and gestured for him to take a seat. 'Short notice I know but there are some important legal points to do with the export of these cultural items you referenced in Memo 63256 that I must double check. Shall we get straight to it?' She smiled at him. Completely different style dealing with Duval compared to Rees, thought Ron. Made sense; Duval had integrity – didn't stop him taking orders from Ron though, even when he disagreed with his superior._

'_Why were these items granted export licences? It isn't just paintings that are leaving British Magical Jurisdiction but I note here,' she produced a single piece of paper from under the case lists Ron had been reading. 'Sculpture, statues, certain historical relics – some of which could be only classed as priceless – the category list goes on… erm, yes… what else? A range of Muggle antiques, one of which is valued at two hundred and fifty thousand Muggle pounds Sterling and is on the Central Muggle Police website as a stolen object, with a large reward being jointly offered by Sotheby's and Christie's on behalf of its owner, the Duke of Northumberland – if, of course, it's the same object?' She looked up from the piece of paper and smiled at Duval. 'This seems a legal mess, Mr Duval. Who gave the nod to grant the export licences? They must have realised if this became known, it would cause a huge scandal for the Foreign Service?'_

_During this, Ron looked between his wife and his subordinate. Duval was not Rees. They all looked kind of similar, these ex-Quidditch player-types: Howard, Duval and Rees – what Muggles might call the 'old tie brigade'. But there the similarity stopped with Duval. There was no explosion of temper, no sneering, and no pomposity. His expression simply changed from open, frank and perhaps a little curious, to a more guarded look, the eyes beginning to squint slightly at Hermione and a vertical frown line appearing between his eyes._

'_Admittedly, some of the objects had slightly odd or dubious provenance but when we questioned this we were told to ignore any qualms and grant all licences.' Duval replied evenly, ignoring Hermione's main question._

'_Thank you for that information, Mr Duval but that was not the answer I want: who gave the overall clearance for the exports to go ahead since…erm…' she paused and again consulted the piece of paper: where the hell had she got this information, thought Ron. '… 2025? Yes, January 25__th__ 2025.' Ron knew this technique well; appear to be mastering your material – make the opposition think you were asking a fairly routine range of questions; make them feel they are in control of the information – perhaps leading to them being a little too sure of themselves – and then something interesting, something unexpected might slip… Hermione would appear slightly hesitant and overly-keen; in fact Ron was sure the main guesses and answers were either already in her head or on that sheet of paper: no, she hunted for bigger answers – deeper and hidden, Ron mused. How ironic, he thought: he was watching her seek for information - and he already knew the answers…_

'_May I just ask, Undersecretary, how you need to know any of this?' Duval responded reasonably. 'Any discrepancies were waived; no-one is at fault – we were simply told not to worry about this. Yes a little odd but not extraordinary, after all. There are precedents where licences have been granted before, for all kinds of reasons – usually reasons of state that we should not question nor, indeed, have we the power to question.' The open, frank expression had returned to Duval's face. He smiled at her. He's going to try and block her, thought Ron. 'May I ask where you receive your information from for this, because it seems to be erroneous in many ways?'_

_Hermione looked at the piece of paper in front of her, deliberately ignoring his last question. She continued to speak to him as she scrutinised her notes._

'_I need to know this, Mr Duval, as you quite rightly ask, because there are serious legal implications as to what this process involves. There are clear legal processes and procedures that must be followed – must be followed, Mr Duval, and as far as I can see you and your colleagues at the Foreign Department have deliberately and, may I say in return, arrogantly flouted all the relevant regulations and allowed for export and definite sale, items of great value to the Magical and Muggle communities alike, some priceless, some unique and irreplaceable, their total value easily accruing to many millions of galleons or that equivalent in either pounds or euros.' She continued looking down. Ron noticed her style of address was that of the seasoned prosecutor, building up her case._

_She'd paused but didn't look up. 'You are disingenuous, Mr Duval. You say there are legal precedents for this granting of export licences in haste and in such large numbers but I have checked very carefully in all the remaining records; in over two hundred years, never have so many licences been granted at such a rate, in such numbers, over such a short period of time, with such a vast range of dubious provenances and damaging legal implications! Well over five hundred items have been –'_

'_Two thousand, at last count…' interrupted Duval, visibly blanching as he realised his mistake. Too late, thought Ron, shaking his head. He looked at his wife. Yes, she was one hell of a lawyer and she would have made one hell of an interrogator in the Auror Department. _

_Duval was no fool but he realised the game was up. Ron couldn't help but admire his coolness as he tried to regain control of the discussion and his composure after such a simple blunder. Some colour quickly returned to his cheeks while Ron half-smiled at Hermione; what a fabulously dramatic gesture as she looked up suddenly as he'd replied – Ron realised this was something new she'd been hoping to find out. Her expression was a picture, Ron thought, as Muggles say._

'_Two thousand!?' She waited for Duval to reply. He did not. He sat still and kept quiet. 'Two thousand export licences granted? When the only official acknowledgement I could find was somewhere over five hundred?' Her tone was accusatory. She now glared at Duval. The calm prosecuting style was gone, just like in her interview with Rees. Ron couldn't help mentally fuming furiously: where the hell was she getting her information? He couldn't help but feel immense pride at her ability and tenacity but she was pushing herself into his professional life in the most – he struggled to find an adequate word. How the hell was he going to resolve this?_

_Duval had said nothing still. _

'_Mr Duval. I want the complete list of all export licences you've granted for this particular period and for this particular person, who I may add you've not yet identified.'_

'_I only know what I was instructed, Undersecretary. The exports were allowed because to not do so would jeopardise a very major operation; Ministry security etcetera. You know the usual protocols. If I supply this information, my position will be untenable. Please do not force my hand. You will force me to speak to the Minister himself if –'_

_Hermione cut him off._

'_I have enough information to make your position completely untenable right now. My team are poised with the relevant evidence, ready to prime the Daily Prophet, the Quibbler – the Lovegoods will lap this up – and three of the major European dailies: all with huge readerships. I can only guess at the full scale of this but the legal and criminal possibilities are colossal: were I a very cynical lawyer-type, Mr Duval, I'd be smacking my lips at the thought of the huge fees I could be charging to either prosecute or defend the various officials, busily shopping each other to the authorities to save their pathetic skins, as Muggles say, when the story breaks. Let alone the fury of your superiors as they throw you to the wolves to save their own sorry skins from scandal. Remember: I had to face the likes of Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange. Do you think buggering up your precious Foreign Service is going to worry me for more than a mere moment? Please, speak to the Minister. I think he'll be extremely… pissed off with you that you didn't do as I so reasonably asked, even if telling me what I want buys him a little more time to … limit the damage, shall we say?' _

_Duval said nothing. 'Ever been to Azkaban, Mr Duval?' She let that sink in._

_A sound of a small explosion hit their ears. For a second or two, Ron was blinded by a white flash. Ron recognised the noise: a camera bulb exploding as it suddenly helped take an image: an image of Duval and Hermione, seated together, in deep discussion. Nervously blinking in shock, Duval looked towards the photograph's taker. John Howard, camera in hand, had simply walked up to the table unobtrusively and taken the shot when Duval least expected it._

'_That will look good on the Prophet's front page. What an exclusive for tomorrow or even the late edition tonight? And the next few months as your life and career is slowly pulled to pieces? Okay, try anonymity in Europe: same image on the front of Le Monde Magical or Die Zeitgeist? You'll be famous, Mr Duval – like Harry Potter.' Duval nodded slowly. She'd won._

'_What do you want me to –'_

'_One hour. Secure owl delivery or yourself, by hand, at my office. Full list of all the relevant exports – everyone and everything: destinations, origins, whether Muggle or Magical – leave nothing out – or I'll blow this sky high, like we did to Gringotts with the dragon.' She leaned forward so he'd get the idea… 'Say nothing. Not a word and the information will be safe and only used as I think necessary.' She paused, trying to sound placatory again. 'Talk about our meeting and you're saying hello to the most humiliating beginning to the rest of your life – which will be, frankly, unbelievably poor. I personally guarantee that.' Ron noticed how she almost smiled then at the man opposite, as if she was commiserating with the awful way things had turned out and at the awful things, she, this nasty woman, was making him do…_

_Duval nodded once, got up slowly from his chair, pushed it back, turned and walked away._

'_Oh! And Mr Duval?' she called to him. He stopped and turned wearily around to face her again. Ron noted her smile was back in full force._

_Duval didn't even get a chance to hide his shocked understanding of what she said next._

'_Not a word to my husband – especially as it was he who told you to grant the export licences.' _


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Manhunt Begins. **

_Smooth, darkened transition. Ron again didn't notice the change from one memory to the next. _

_He realised this would be the last one, assuming Jimmy just wanted them to catch the main drift of what the hell Hermione was up to. There'd been four photographs. That would be all. He hoped._

_Same location again clearly. Yes and again, it would be a new time and date. He'd check all this later. _

_This new memory magic technique was truly stunning. Certainly some key sensations would not be possible for obvious safety reasons – you didn't want to be in the middle of a memory spell battle or Muggle shoot-out and feel the sensations from that! But… yes, what was that!? He could definitely smell the strong Colombian coffee scent from Hermione's mug, sat at her left elbow. He was half-tempted, reaching to see if he could dip his finger in and taste the coffee when his wife moved slightly, a shadow falling over the table, alerting her to someone's arrival. It was John Howard._

'_He's just arrived. There's been a problem apparently with the Floo Network between our section of the Hotel and the Muggles' section, that's why he was delayed but he's definitely checked in now for the meeting.'_

'_Good. Thank you, John. Could you bring him out of the meeting, please? Let him get in there so they know he's here but I just want it to appear like something routine has come up and he'll be able deal with it in… say ten minutes. Okay?' _

_Howard nodded and strode away._

_Darkness again; another transition._

_Time had moved on now, maybe 15 minutes… coffee half-drunk, still quite warm with steam gently rising from it. Four people now sitting at the table, including himself: Hermione, John Howard sitting opposite him and sitting opposite her, Benjamin Stewart, Assistant Undersecretary for Magical Administration. Hermione was speaking quickly._

'_Thank you for coming, Ben. I'm sorry John had to pull you out of the meeting but I must know today. Don't worry, we've charmed the table; we are completely safe and I'll make it as brief as possible – but I have to know.' Ron's left eyebrow quirked up at this; obviously the charms hadn't worked -unless she was recording the sessions herself? _

_Stewart, nodding his understanding as Hermione spoke and waving his left hand, as if dismissing her apologies, spoke softly in return. 'No, it's fine; I've been glad to help. I've known about the operation now for years. We were all sworn to secrecy because there were worries even as late as 2015 of infiltration by neo-Death Eaters and other associated organisations, but more people know than perhaps you realise.' He paused to let this fact register with Hermione. 'Only a very small number really in overall terms, carefully selected for what they could bring to the operation's success or those who had to be involved because of their seniority etcetera, but a surprising number, nevertheless, for such an incredibly well-guarded secret.'_

'_How many?' Hermione asked._

'_Fifty senior officials in total.'_

'_How far does it go?'_

'_To the very top.' Ron sighed. This was bound to happen. He'd pushed decent people like Duval and Stewart too hard. It was bound to come out some day. Rees didn't count. He was a shit._

'_Don't misconstrue my motives, Hermione; you and I and Ron are old friends now and we all believe in the work we are doing at the Ministry, to make a better world. I do not doubt the essential decency of Ron's aims in this or Kingsley's tacit support for them.' He leant forward, placing both hands on the table in a gesture of openness. 'Please, let me explain why I agreed to give you certain information.' He knew it. Of all the interviews, it would be Ben to be the information source. He always was too bloody honest – but they'd needed him. _

'_I would rather we had been left in the dark, to be honest; of course we deal with some kind or other of highly-sensitive information almost every day, but, fundamentally, we are administrators; our department, like in the Muggle Civil Service, helps in the running of the government, as you know; we oversee the working of everyone else to help ensure good governance occurs every day. We had to be included in the set-up, because we have a hand in everything from Justice to Law Enforcement to Budgets to – well, you know this but you'll also understand why I was loath to be pulled in and nor was my previous senior – it was going to be potentially a logistical nightmare to control this and keep it completely secret; we didn't want to become part of the policy making - but we really cannot question that. We are there to serve the Government. Why the hell would we want to be involved in an operation that could very well be in the 'national interest for both Muggle and Magical' but, at best, would involve an enormous initial expenditure that we would have to help hide and, at worst, was legally – if not morally – highly dubious to anyone with any common sense at all. For some of us, the ends are beginning to not be worth the means.' _

_Ron didn't feel angry at Ben. He should. He should be shouting the roof down right now but he was beginning to understand. All this was starting to cost too much, and not just in terms of the money and time and effort. Was it really worth it, he thought. Ben was a great 'civil servant', a brilliant administrator, he'd been needed all the way. If he was beginning to doubt Ron, then his decision to order John McKinnon to be ready to move at a moment's notice and complete the operation had been the right one. Yes, his instincts had been right all along. Finish this now; before it finishes you._

'_So when I came to you, to ask about what Ron was up to, you –'_

'_No, I had no problems in talking to you confidentially, Hermione and I still don't, okay? I know we have to be quick so let's get to the main points. I agreed to help you with your enquiries because you are the soul of discretion, as my Muggle Uncle Terry used to say. You explained to me how you'd received information about this a while back and how you felt you'd no choice but to act: I would have done the same, if potential death threats were being made and people I care for would be in danger.' He paused briefly. Ron sensed there was something else. Ben was holding something back. 'Also some things are beginning to slip. Some of my subordinates have begun to question some of the transactions they are picking up on: we just can't hide everything. One of my more astute secretaries noticed an anomaly in Exports two months ago – I had to give him a sideways promotion to get him away from that particular problem – he'd even spoken of taking this to the newspapers. The only alternative was I sack him and I couldn't do it to him. He is just doing his job; he is talented and keen, a decent person but this operation has nearly cost him his livelihood and his career – and he would've been none the wiser as to why. We simply cannot carry on like this for ever. And there's something else.'_

_Hermione waited. Ron waited._

'_Some people are saying Ron's become too big and the scale of the operation will be utterly detrimental to the Ministry and its reputation if it goes wrong. From listening to the discussion within the operation, some people are beginning to prepare for a potential political disaster. I'm helping you because you're my friends and Ron is one of the best people I know. I just fear he is losing himself with this whole thing. You need to know this also because, in my opinion, you need to be ready to protect him –' _

'_That's what I'm trying to do, Ben' interjected Hermione._

'_I don't just mean in your legal role, Hermione, as Undersecretary. I mean as his wife and mother of his children. This operation could either be the greatest coup of his career, or a bloody mess from which we manage to scrape something or a complete and unmitigated disaster which will destroy the good reputation the Ministry has tried to create in the last two decades and wreck innumerable careers and hopes: he's playing for very high stakes. Cracks are beginning to appear. Not just in the operation … but in Ron himself. If this goes wrong,' he looked meaningfully at her, 'I think it'll finish him.'_

'_How do you know that it'll –'_

'_Because I monitor all the operations and transactions the Ministry has on a daily basis. You must have noticed how strained he's seemed in the last weeks and months? I have to meet him on at least a bi-weekly basis to discuss regular government business, and he's tried to hide from me the fact that Auror activity, centred around central Manchester, Birmingham and parts of London, including this Hotel, Hermione,' here again he looked pointedly at Hermione, who seemed stunned by this, 'has increased hugely in the last month.' Ron could now place the time of this meeting; it must be about a month- and-a-half ago. It was then he'd begun to quickly make the build-up to the operation's climax. _

'_Here!?' gasped Hermione._

'_Yes.' replied Stewart. 'He's moving to the finish and it's got to work. I'm sure of it. Just be prepared, Hermione, that's all I'm saying.' He finished with a kindly look over the table. Hermione remained quiet. She seemed too moved to speak. Ron suddenly felt the need to touch her, hold her; comfort her. He was causing all of this._

'_I must go soon, I'm afraid. Here's one point you must understand though. Ron might see this as a betrayal. It's not. I and my colleagues in the know will see this to the very end, whatever the cost, despite what I've just said and my ... reservations? I just need you to comprehend the possible,' he stopped, picking through his mind for the appropriate word, 'evils that may occur. I've never forgotten, and I never will, the loyalty Ron showed me and my department when the Templeton evidence was lost.'_

'_Ben, please, that wasn't your fault, it was just a simple clerical error that –'_

'_We slipped up utterly in the evidences' transportation, Hermione. The key pieces were crucial and you know they were. It was lost and he was released on a technicality that we'd created.' He looked down at his hands on the table top. 'And then he went and killed five Muggles the next day before the Aurors managed to arrest him. Not a day goes by and I don't think of that…' he said bleakly. 'If Ron hadn't stuck up for us and argued the case, all the way up to Kingsley himself, we'd be…' he broke off._

_Then he looked up. With a piercing gaze on the woman opposite, he said, 'I don't want that for Ron, alright? So, I'll help but I beg you keep to your original promise – it is to protect him.' Hermione nodded. Ron brought a hand to his face to control his own emotions. If things go wrong, I'll protect you, Ben, I promise, he thought._

'_Today's information may be the last I can give for some time, do you understand? The operation is called 'Beachcomber'. In its entirety it is known to only two people. I know this because they are the only two people with the necessary security clearance. Not even John McKinnon has that. Otherwise it is run on a purely need-to-know basis. It is based on an operational axis running from central Manchester to central Birmingham to London – to this Hotel, in fact, Hermione. It has fifty senior officials – you must have met Duval and Rees, for example, by now?' He gave her an appraising look and she nodded. 'I believe from analysing and managing the operation's logistics within the Ministry's daily workings, that it has two objectives. One of them is secret; let's call it the 'central aim'. The central aim is known to only two people – Kingsley, as Minister is not, in my opinion, one of them. Its official aim is to uncover, entrap and destroy, whilst in full operation so that the convictions will be utterly unchallengeable, the biggest secret neo-Death Eater cell believed to be in existence in the Western Hemisphere. We are talking here of something potentially on a similar scale to the Battles at Copenhagen, or even Budapest. I believe the central aim is interlinked with this completely – but that is just a … theory… based on circumstantial evidence.'_

'_And what is the rest of your theory?' asked Hermione. Ron sat up straighter: this was going to be crucial, he just knew it._

'_Certain Auror transactions required the apprehension of the Death Eaters' cell leader; that was always emphasised most strongly – far, far more than usual. This has been going on for years. And its beginning coincided with a rather … dark rumour … a sighting report, long since … 'lost',' Ben paused again to strengthen the point of what he was saying, '…of the Death Eater, Fothergill. In Manchester.' Hermione sat back with shock. Ron could already see her putting two and two together to get four. Hermione seemed lost in a reverie, eyes glazed for a few moments before she recollected herself and where she was._

'_Thank you, Ben. I can't -' Suddenly lost for words, she stopped._

_Stewart reached over and held her hands with his. 'It's alright, Hermione. I understand.' _

_They both stood up and shook hands. As Stewart was about half-turned to go, returning to his meeting, Hermione stopped him with a surprise question._

'_Do you know who the other person is, Ben? Obviously, one of them is Ron; but who's the other, if not Kingsley?'_

_Ben smiled at her. 'God, Hermione! You're incorrigible!' he quietly chuckled. 'Another theory of mine,' he said and his smile lifted slightly lopsidedly. 'The 'Deen', Hermione. Dumbledore's Ears and Eyes in the North.'_

'_Dorothy!?' Hermione exclaimed. Stewart simply raised his eyebrows once before he turned again and walked away._

_Hermione sat still and quiet. John Howard hadn't said a word in the whole discussion and he remained silent now, waiting for Hermione to speak, giving her space to think. _

_She looked around the central atrium, at all the activity and all the life. Ron felt numb. So now she knew. She may not be screaming it out loud but he was sure she now knew the real reason why 'Beachcomber' was taking place._

_She suddenly seemed to come back to herself. She sighed deeply and looked over at Howard._

'_I need to see Dorothy Garnett-Butcher – as soon as possible.'_


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Three Coffees.**

_Smooth, darkened transition. Ron hadn't noticed the change _from_ one memory to the next. _

Now he didn't notice when he returned to the reality of Booth Four, of La Bella, Knightsbridge. A couple of seconds passed as he became fully aware of his surroundings – the rich smells of excellent Italian food, the aftertaste of a very good Barolo from 2017 and the glare of his best and oldest friend, Harry James Potter, directed squarely at him and no-one else. His best friend had said nothing. Yet.

Ron stared back. He decided he'd say nothing either.

'You need to explain everything, Ron. Please.' A pause. 'And so do you, you devious fucker – or I'll arrest you myself for withholding information. I may be Undersecretary for Education but that won't stop a citizen's arrest, Jimmy, rest assured.'

Abrahams smiled. 'I will, Harry, promise.' His expression changed, the smile disappearing and a hard look coming into his eyes. 'Believe me, this matters to me more than you can realise or understand… but you will, I swear.'

Ron should have known Harry wouldn't have been really angry at him for not sharing this - but something else was nagging at him before he could really think more of it.

'The game continues, Jimmy – and you've got my attention now completely. I'll tell you what I can – or what I want to, at the moment – I'm NOT about to reveal all – eggs in one basket and all that; but then it's your turn, understand? I want you to tell me everything you know, here, today – now.'

Abrahams said nothing in reply.

'There's something else, Jimmy: I fucking know there is, because, for all our differences over the years, I know you – very well. You're holding out on us.' Ron paused. Abrahams looked slight ill-at-ease. 'What is it, Jimmy? Tell me everything. Okay? Everything. Then I'll be in a position to give any …propositions you've got a real consideration. Agreed? If it's that bloody important, you know I won't refuse you – even if it is for old time's sake and nothing else.'

Abrahams still said nothing. The smile had returned at Ron's last comment. He just nodded his agreement. Harry moved slightly, getting himself comfortable for the coming confession.

'Good,' sighed Ron, 'thank you, Jimmy, because I'd hate – really hate - to break several of the most important laws, drafted by my own fair wife, in the last twenty years, which include rights to a fair trial, no arrest without a warrant or imprisoning without due cause or charge, by shutting you up somewhere, nice and tight and cosy, for about a week whilst I finish 'Beachcomber' off.' Ron smiled at Abraham's sudden discomfort showing in his face.

'You wouldn't?' Abrahams fired back. 'We've got a deal.'

Ron glanced at Harry then back to the apprehensive man sitting opposite.

'I wouldn't?' questioned Ron. 'Well, after what we've just witnessed with the love of my life – anyone fancy a coffee?' he asked suddenly. The other two men blinked, surprised at his change of tone; they nodded quickly. 'Three coffees, please.' he said and three fresh coffees materialised on the table.

Ron leaned forward, picked up the spoon from the saucer and stirred his drink lazily as he reached for two lumps of brown sugar which he dropped carefully into his cup. He stopped stirring and lifted the drink to his lips. Replacing the cup back on the saucer, he breathed in audibly in clear satisfaction at the quality of the coffee. Yes, it was very good; very good indeed. He seemed oblivious to the other two.

Harry looked at Jimmy who returned his glance. He just shrugged his shoulders and reached for his drink.

Ron watched and waited for just the right moment. He watched the other two men as they helped each other to more milk and sugar. Abrahams had the cup half way to his lips. Then he was taking a long sip…

'Yes, where was I? Oh, yes – wouldn't I? Well,' Ron smiled, 'to paraphrase my wife, Jimmy: you fucking try me.'

Abrahams was still choking and coughing twenty seconds later as Ron, smile still firmly and fake-sweetly in place, leant back into his chair, waiting for the other man to recover and begin his story.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: And Now My Heart Is Sore**

The coughing had abated. Abrahams quickly glugged some more San Pellegrino to sooth his throat.

'Hey, steady,' Ron said, smiling. 'That stuff's worth savouring, you know?'

Abrahams, still slightly red in the face, just glared back over the table and set the now-empty glass back down.

'Okay. I believe you, Ron, but banging me up in some… I doubt it would ever be 'cosy' place for a week or two, won't be necessary. You'll see. Let's begin.' He leant forward and began to talk.

'Fothergill's family and mine have been interlinked closely for several generations. I don't just mean business or acquaintanceship; like all Purebloods we are related at some point in our family histories.' He paused and sighed very heavily. 'Not that I'd ever see that as a mark of distinction or pride, I can fucking assure you.'

'As you know, not all Slytherin families followed Voldemort when he first came out of hiding; in fact, many were appalled at what he'd become. Yes, I know what you're going to say: as a Gryffindor once said to me, Slytherin's produced more dark wizards than a constipated niffler can build up a belly-load of golden turds - but down the ages there have been many who have used their innate cunning and guile for good – not just their own profit and gain – though I'm sure that was there too. Just look at Slughorn, for example.'

'The point of this, Jimmy? And I compared them to a Griffin with – anyway, the point?' queried Harry.

'You need the context, Harry, always the context. When Voldemort appeared properly first time, my family and many other Slytherins like us, refused to join, in any way with him at all and in fact, Slytherin recruitment in parts of the Ministry, like the Aurors increased; they wanted to do their bit against him, my father and mother included. But the rot had already set in. The Death Eater attacks, the revelation that they were led by a former Slytherin Head Boy called Tom Riddle and the building knowledge with the general public that most of the captured Death Eaters were from my House resulted in Slytherin's name being tainted even further. Eventually, only people like Dumbledore were supporting us – it was a very bad time… as you know. Attacks increased and eventually Ministry-supporting Slytherin families began to be targeted – by both sides, because they were seen as traitors by one and as deeply suspect by the other and not to be fully trusted. Again, I think only Dumbledore's interventions saved many innocent lives – but it also earned him a lot of enemies in the Ministry. I know he was something of a hero to you, in some ways, Ron, but Barty Crouch's approach of 'fight fire with fire' worked horribly against him in the end. Some families were driven completely into the arms of Voldemort; others went into hiding for years and many hundreds of others emigrated rather than be caught in what was quickly becoming a civil war.' He paused for a moment, wrestling with some emotion as his face seemed to cloud over in its expression.

'Sorry. This is hard for me - because I'm a Slytherin and bloody proud of it and I won't… I will not apologise for that, to anyone – and we aren't all like that psychotic, stupid, murderous, self-absorbed bast-. 'He stopped for a few moments, breathing slightly heavily as he got control of himself.

'It's alright, Jimmy.' said Harry gently. 'Carry on when you're ready.'

Ron looked at the man sitting opposite him. How things had changed. Many years ago he would have dismissed Slytherin with a sneer, as a bunch of lying, duplicitous, two-faced, disloyal, racist, murdering… he could go on. But the war and Auror training afterwards changed that. The lengthy investigations, the research they'd done for the many trials that took place, the working shoulder-to-shoulder with Slytherins in Auror training – all taught him to never judge a wizard or witch by the wand or House: always see the person.

Above all else, Ron remembered Snape.

'Mum told me afterwards that Dad refused to leave even though Voldemort had branded him as a traitor to the cause and all the usual crap. Traitor to the cause!? That bastard! Mum said he would rather have died and been damned for all eternity – her precise words – than bow the knee to that twat. She could swear like Moody when she wanted. As you know, they were both Aurors under him and he and Dumbledore tried to protect them but after Voldemort's first defeat, Crouch was, and I quote: 'reassessing the Auror Division'; in other words, if you weren't utterly 'clean' in the Ministry's version of 'clean' you'd had it in their employ. Crouch himself dismissed my parents. I'll give him his due, the bloke had balls. Apparently, Dad was in shock – he just wanted to do his bit, fight these … people who said they represented him and his house and his family and his very way of life … when actually, they were nothing like us. I was told later by a witness that mum told Crouch he'd signed their death warrants. Without the natural protection that being an Auror and being part of the Auror Division gave, we were far more vulnerable from reprisals and revenge attacks from Death Eaters. It changed nothing. They were out. Matter closed.' He paused again. 'We went into hiding.'

'We managed to stay safe for several months but it couldn't last.' He 'd been looking down at the table top for several moments as he spoke; now he looked up and his eyes blazed. Ron and Harry just looked back, saying nothing.

'The weakness was the Fothergills. Fothergill's father and mine were old friends. All of that set – his grandparents, mine; his parents and mine were all joined by a mutual hatred of Voldemort but whereas mine had stood up openly to him, the Fothergills chose the perhaps more dangerous role of informers, passing on information to Dumbledore, Moody and others. I know,' he laughed to see the look of agreement on the two faces opposite, 'crazy when you think of the all stereotypes we grew up with, but there were some Slytherins, doing what Snape did but not just from a change of heart or being noble, but simply to stop Voldemort – they didn't see it any other way; maybe the Sorting Hat got it wrong. Fothergill's father was one of these. The parents, my mum trusted implicitly – but she told me she had reservations about William. She didn't want to be judgemental but there was just something about the child that worried her.'

Abrahams slowed in his speech and blew out a long sigh. 'When the reprisal came it was very quick. Our safe house was compromised and they attacked in the middle of the night. My father was executed in front of my very eyes. He would have gone straightaway but Fothergill's father – Dan, I must call him Dan – stepped in front and took the first curse. His wife tried to attack them in her rage but they killed her too.' He looked away for a moment.

'I didn't know at the time but mum and dad had made a vow that if it came to it, she was to save herself and us – he was to die.' Abrahams suddenly laughed. It sounded hollow and utterly humourless. 'Stupid, bloody Slytherin logic, wasn't it: somebody has to die for the greater good – or some such bollocks. The Death Eaters spared us. Their usual policy.' he added, seemingly to Ron and Harry, like it was a bleak afterthought. 'So word would be spread amongst the others who'd defied Voldemort. That was us and the Fothergills. That's us reduced to the fundamentals: a warning. All that life and hope, shrunk down to just that one night.' His bitterness rang clear and loud to Ron and Harry.

'Jimmy, look – you don't have to relive –'Ron interrupted gently.

'No!' Abrahams shot back. 'I know you know and you don't want me to relive it but you need to understand properly why I'm here today – and, God, Harry doesn't even know any of this.'

Harry looked at Ron. 'You knew what happened with Jimmy's parents and the Fothergills?'

'Yes. I mean, we all did, didn't we, when we looked at all the cases after the Battle of Hogwarts – but the exact details here.' He nodded towards Jimmy. 'He told me this during a very late night,' Ron looked ruefully at Abrahams, 'very emotional drinking session during our first year of Auror training.'

'God, we were so pissed that night. Up near Aberdeen, wasn't it. And you were missing Hermione something bloody chronic. Ha! I knew you really loved her – wouldn't bloody shut up about her.' Jimmy smiled at the memory. 'We were betrayed.' he said suddenly.

'Sorry? Betrayed? By whom?' asked Harry.

'He told me personally – the one who did it. They never caught him, though God knows we tried…' replied Abrahams.

'Is he dead? Jimmy?' Harry gently coaxed Abrahams. He seemed to be staring off into space suddenly.

'No.' he half-murmured. 'No!' he replied in a stronger voice and locked eyes with Ron.

'No. He's very much alive and well. In Central Manchester.' Ron finished the answer for Abrahams.

'Fothergill!?' blurted Harry.

'Yes.' replied Abrahams slowly. 'William – fucking – Aloysius – fucking – Fothergill.' And when he broke his gaze with Ron and turned to look at Harry, the other man thought he'd never seen a look that so conveyed the simple, single idea of the intention of finding someone – and killing them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Their Hearts Have Not Grown Old.**

'Fothergill betrayed his own parents? Betrayed all of you? So, he could …' spluttered Harry incredulously.

'So he could get more influence with the Death Eaters left after Voldemort's disappearance, yes. Simple as that,' replied Abrahams quickly.

Harry's shock was etched on his face. 'But your father died the year before we went to Hogwarts. That much you'd told us but not all the full details.' He stopped suddenly. 'You and Fothergill were in our year at school. You're telling me a boy betrayed his own family and yours, at the age of …' Harry drifted off, shocked by the full import of what he was saying.

Abrahams looked at him coolly. His emotions seemed to have come under some kind of control. 'Yes. Mind you, betrayal is betrayal, yes? Whatever age you do it,' he added rhetorically.

'Why didn't you tell us this when the investigations were going on in the aftermath of the war?' asked Harry. He was beginning to appreciate the man's loss but this last part obviously irked him.

'The Death Eaters silenced us – simple. We were bound by all variety of secrecy jinxes. We survived but virtually my whole time at Hogwarts we were under some kind of surveillance. Plus I knew nothing till later on.' He looked hard at Harry. 'After the Sirius Black debacle and Diggory's death, word began to get about that Pettigrew was alive and very much active, shall we say. And that he'd caused the downfall of James and Lily Potter. It got me wondering. One day I caught Malfoy and Fothergill arguing and Malfoy threatened Fothergill with revealing what had really happened with his parents. When they realised they could be overheard they shut up, but I was hooked straightaway. I learnt nothing more till the night of the Battle. We were evacuated as you know; again we weren't to be trusted. As much as I wanted to stay initially, you now know I couldn't because my mum and sister, Francesca were being held hostage: if I'd stayed, they'd…'

'It's okay, Jimmy; go on,' said Ron.

'As you know, a few of us risked all and turned back and fought with you. God, I was so scared. What had I done? What if they killed my … As I turned to rush back into the tunnel, Fothergill tried to stop me. When I told him what I was going to do, he just laughed. I didn't understand. It was utter pandemonium as you very well remember and I hadn't got time to piss about. I'd made my decision, reckless though it was – I honestly thought it would be all up with my family anyway, if Voldemort won – so why wait, eh? I asked him if he was coming and he said no, he was going to return to 'his Lord Voldemort' and make sure they finished the job, by killing my mum and sister. It was then the charm worked, as we say: it was him and he knew I knew. He'd betrayed us. Can you imagine how I felt? The shit – rat-filth is right, Harry – smiled. He actually bloody-well smiled. He tried to kill me but I was faster and stunned him. I left him there. I wanted to kill him but the thought of him rotting in Azkaban appealed more.' He smirked. Again the expression seemed hollow and emotionless. 'Shit, how wrong I was.'

'He was reported missing, most likely dead after the Battle, if I remember correctly,' said Harry.

'Yes,' replied Abrahams. 'Of course, even though I'd fought in the Battle, we were still going to be investigated, so I heard nothing of Fothergill for months afterwards and all my enquiries were blocked.'

Ron suddenly sat up straighter. 'You think someone was covering for him?'

'Yes, I do. But at the time, when you're trying to prove you fought in the Battle NOT to save your miserable Slytherin hide but because you really wanted to help and there's still a mood of mass hysteria and recrimination against my House, you'll understand if my efforts didn't get very far.'

'How far?' asked Ron.

'I was basically told to piss off in no uncertain terms; to carry on would result in very serious action being taken against me and my family.'

'I wonder,' mused Ron.

'What?' asked Harry.

'In a while. Carry on, Jimmy.'

'Well, the rest you know. My family were eventually cleared, thanks to your testimonies; I and Francesca followed dad into the Aurors. I got to know you two bastards; Neville, Ginny, Hermione and the rest– just the best bunch of people and life seemed to be very slowly improving for Slytherins generally.' Both Ron and Harry smiled at this. 'All seemed fine; I'd found a real purpose in life – till the Manchester Raid.'

He looked now, very hard at Ron. 'I know you weren't there, Harry.'

'Yes, I was abroad, if you remember, drumming up support for the International Anti-Death Eater League.' Harry sighed. 'Great idea but I'd have been of more use with you lot.'

'Couldn't be helped, mate,' comforted Ron. 'No-one was to know that would be the culmination of something so big or so terrible.' They looked back to Abrahams.

'Go on. Tell me,' said Harry, looking at Abrahams. 'I know a lot from the original briefings – but I want to know about how you found Fothergill.'

'Yes; it was terrible – an utter bloody fiasco, from beginning to end.' Abrahams said. He seemed tired now, as if reliving that night was something he'd rather not do. 'Fothergill had kind of faded in my mind; no more reports – okay, I thought, he's dead – or fled far, far, far away. I can't get him either way, I thought. Just do your job, be a good Auror – the best you can in fact, and make up for his horrendous treachery.' He waited as if his thoughts could catch up with his emotions. 'Do you remember when we first saw him Ron?'

'I'll never forget it, as long as I live,' Ron replied quietly. 'Do you remember what a shit day it was in Manchester – God, I love that city, but when it rains there, it pisses it down. Everything seemed like it was coming at you out of a wet, grey moving curtain – it just hammered it down, you know? Like one of those really bad Quidditch games and it pours down and you can't see anything – everything's blurred and vague. We all knew the bad weather was being affected by some incredibly heavy charms. I remember you saying to Ratchet, our section leader that we should call it off but he said no; that the orders were clear. I thought then it was going to be a disaster… I sometimes hate being right.'

'Where was Fothergill?' asked Harry, looking at Abrahams who'd been listening intently to Ron's recollection of that terrible early evening in Manchester, over twenty years ago.

'We didn't see him straightaway. All hell had broken out. We believed the main base was in the Midland Hotel and on Collins' orders the Division attacked at six pm precisely. I still don't know for the life of me why he chose that time. Muggle rush hour still very much going on; we're in a great city after all, there's thousands of Muggles and Magical alike, all out and about. Cars, traffic – and then there's the damn awful weather. Not forgetting the time of year; it's January and already dark. Maybe he thought it would give us some cover. Ha!' Abrahams barked out a laugh. Sometimes, thought Ron, he really does remind me of Sirius, just a little bit. 'Fuck! By the end of the evening, around eleven, we'd barely got control: several hundred Muggles were either dead or injured, their news networks were broadcasting it as some kind of major terrorist attack; we'd captured or killed dozens of Death Eaters but we'd suffered very heavy casualties too and the ripple effect of this spread all over the North West region for weeks afterwards. God, what a mess; the Midland Hotel turned out to be just one of their covers, they were all over the fucking place. We'd got anti-apparation wards up left, right and bloody centre but they just kept reappearing – and of course the more Muggles get hurt in the crossfire, the better, as far as the Death Eaters are concerned. So, between trying to keep the Muggle casualties to somewhere in the hundreds rather than thousands and defeat the Death Eaters at the same bloody time, we nearly suffered the greatest defeat in the Auror Divisions' history.' He paused. 'And then we lost Adam and Francesca.' He looked down at the table.

Abrahams had stopped. Shit, Jimmy, thought Ron; I'm so sorry, mate – I knew we'd come to this part. He decided to pick up where his old colleague had stopped.

'We were down by the Art Gallery. I knew that area well – obviously through preparation for the operation but also Hermione had taken me there the previous summer. Jimmy was with me and two others, Naismith and Duncan, as I recall. We could hear the explosions a few streets up. We wanted to go but Ratchet said no, we stay and secure the area. So we stayed. And within five minutes we were in the middle of it. Death Eaters everywhere; something was up with the bloody anti-apparation wards and we just had to keep moving – and that's when we found him.'

'Fothergill?'

'Yes. We were having no joy simply apparating so some of us took to the brooms and others stayed on foot and spread out to fight it out in the streets. We hoped to flush them out, if the Reserve could just get their bloody act together and get the anti-apparation charms working. They'd be stuck and we'd be able to engage them wand-to-wand. Around the back of the Gallery are smaller streets with little Muggle shops and businesses, followed within a few hundred yards by the Chinatown District.' Ron had slowed in his recollections, as if he was pausing in his mind to get the memories just so. They could have used a pensieve or Jimmy's device – but somehow he wanted, he needed to talk this out. 'We'd got separated from Duncan and Naismith. We turned down one of the smaller side streets. Do you remember at Hogwarts, at the height of the Battle, how with all the chaos, the sheer noise and conflict, you could get easily disorientated? You know? Where are your friends? Where's the enemy? Where the hell did that curse come from? Was it friendly? Was it not?' Harry nodded in understanding. 'Well, it was like that. Most of the City Centre now was in complete uproar – Muggle Police sirens, people screaming, explosions – nobody really knew what the hell was going on. The noise was unbelievable. All we could do was follow orders and fight it out on our patch.'

Ron looked at Abrahams. 'Adam and Francesca were being held at wand point by at least four or five Death Eaters. We turned the corner quickly and were almost on them before they realised we were there. There was a stand-off but we were outnumbered. We faced each other for at least a few seconds before anyone said anything. One of them ordered us to surrender, I remember. Adam told us not to be bloody stupid but to fight. He got punched very hard for his bravery: just like Adam, eh?'

Ron paused for a moment. He smiled, recalling his long-dead friend, Adam Martineau. 'I don't recall Francesca saying anything, do you, Jimmy?' Abrahams said nothing; just looked at the table cloth and shook his head. 'They were both incredibly brave; they knew we were buggered but Jimmy and I tried to buy time by trying to bargain. You know? Let them go and we'll all just back away from this and no-one gets hurt – anything to buy time. I think we'd only been trying for maybe thirty seconds when one of the two Death Eaters at the back of the group steps forward and tells us to shut up. Even through the mask there was something about his voice that was familiar. I do remember the hairs going up on the back of my neck: I knew this bloody voice. I do remember Jimmy coming alive and shouting back at the Death Eater; think you called him traitor and a bastard – and that's when I knew who it was.' Ron looked at Abrahams to see he was okay. Jimmy hadn't moved.

'The bastard laughed – don't they always, eh? Arrogant shits! And then he removed his mask. I remember my shock: fucking William Aloysius Fothergill – very much alive and grinning like a loon. I've rarely been as shocked. I knew by then what this meant to Jimmy: I didn't know or realise what it was going to mean to me.' Ron added quietly.

'What do you mean?' said Harry.

'Do you remember the interrogations after the Manchester Raid, after you'd got back from overseas?' Harry nodded. 'In those interrogations, we discovered what some of us had known or suspected for a while. There was some genius working for the Death Eaters, helping to organise them and provide them with the best and latest of experimental magic. They all confirmed, with or without Veritaserum that it was Fothergill; he was the genius. He was the bastard giving them the capabilities to use new, enhanced Cruciatus curses; new poisons, practically undetectable at the time; enhanced use of powerful Dark Magic objects – I could go on. Well, that night, I remember we can't have talked at each other for more than a few minutes at the very most – but it felt like hours.' Ron paused again. This was where it would get very hard indeed, for both him and Jimmy.

'We still tried to bargain with him; let them go and just piss off – yes? We'll meet again another day but just let them go and you can escape. Nothing doing; the bastard, he knew we were absolutely desperate. The arrogance of the sod: even in all that chaos and mayhem, he still mocked at us – calling us both blood traitors – all the usual shite. I remember his comrades were getting a bit jittery and I was hoping they'd tell him to shut up, either make a break for it, leaving Adam and Francesca or we'd be able to stun them quickly. Something, anything to turn the tables.'

'I knew it was stupid to hope he wouldn't mention the betrayal because I knew Jimmy would just go for it.' Here Ron shook his head slowly. 'I can't say I blame you,' looking straight at the man opposite. 'But you didn't lose it, did you?' said Ron. 'I did' he added quietly.

The atmosphere in the booth seemed to have taken on a quietness all its own, as if it were a calming blanket, being lowered on to the discussion, to surround the hurt and give some balm to all the pain that was being expressed. Harry broke that moment with his quietly-spoken question.

'Why did you lose it, Ron?'

'He'd mocked Jimmy with the death of their families. I remember I was trying to hold Jimmy steady with my right arm whilst we both kept our wands up and trained on them. It was then he told me something I didn't want to hear.' He paused. Harry said nothing; just let a heart beat or two pass before gently encouraging his oldest friend.

'What?'

'After mocking Jimmy, he told me I was a blood-traitor and did I enjoy the architecture of Hogwarts. I remember asking him what the bloody hell he was talking about. He said a little sprite had told him my brother had been killed by some of the falling architecture of Hogwarts – and it probably wouldn't have fallen so hard or exploded quite so violently if he hadn't developed an enhancement to the spell that Rookwood used.' Ron stopped again, his voice now thick with emotion. 'Always smiling, wasn't he, Jimmy; whilst telling us all this. Always smiling…'

Ron's eyes had now closed. A single tear began to make its way down his right cheek. 'Therefore, he hoped I appreciated the trouble he'd gone to, to rid the world of – I'll never forget his next words – 'fucking Muggle-loving, blood-traitor piece of shit like Fred Weasley' – for without his enhancements there'd never been quite enough power to breach the walls…' Ron stopped.

He looked over at Abrahams. He still hadn't moved an inch since Ron had begun the last part of the story. 'It was then I lost it.'

'Sorry, Jimmy,' whispered Ron. Harry reached his right hand out and put it on Ron's shoulder. 'It was after this, that Adam and Francesca died.' Abrahams looked up.

Ron sat very still, his voice now quiet and rasping as he forced out the words that hit Harry like a flung brick.

'They died.' Ron said, very quietly and steadily, as if he was simply stating the time of day. 'It was my fault.'


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: The Savagery Of The World.**

The train rushed north. Ron eased back into the comfortable seats of Muggle First Class, taking sips from his coffee and watching the suburbs of North London race past: houses, blocks of flats, the occasional view into a high street with shops and shoppers; innumerable back gardens, abounding with sheds, lawns, washing drying on the line. He put the cup down.

Ron let his forehead slowly meet the cool glass of the train window, Hermione's quotation exercise whirring its way around his mind.

'_Suddenly I was sick of the savagery of the world.' _

The alliterative power of what he'd just said out loud to himself hung in the train carriage like a curse or a warning. One of the business-type Muggles across the carriage's aisle looked over slightly quizzically before returning his attention to the laptop in front of him.

She'd said when they'd compiled the notebook for these mind discipline games that he should include anything famous or things that were personal or simply relevant to parts of his life and work - or just anything he liked or caught his attention.

When he was first training as an Auror, her father had lent him the novel, 'The Summer of the Red Wolf' by Morris West, explaining it was one of his favourites – and they had a good laugh at the fact the main character was the 'Red Wolf' – a retired secret agent nicknamed 'Red Wolf' because of his red hair, who was being dragged, most unwillingly, out of retirement to perform a last mission. Even if at the time he only got half of the Muggle references, Ron had enjoyed the book greatly, touched by Hermione's father's interest in him - and the 'Red' reference and the fact West was Australian added an extra interesting twist in terms of their lives.

But it was that first sentence that had really hit home at the time. Mr Granger had lent it to him not that long after their return from Australia, when savagery was hopefully the last thing on anyone's mind. It summed up perfectly what he wanted for Hermione and himself – and the world.

No savagery. No. Never. No more.

And as he gazed over the seemingly ordinary and usual view of North London, with its people and business and bustle and life going on, it struck him forcefully that he was still sick of the savagery of the world: in fact he'd been 'suddenly' sick of it for over … well, he was now beginning to lose count of how many years.

_I am in blood stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er._

These mind exercises were built into the very mental landscape itself of Ronald Weasley now after so many years of practising them to help him order and structure his thinking, he thought to himself. God! Hermione Granger really had rubbed off on him and a little, affectionate smile of played on to his lips – he couldn't help it: he thought of her – and he would smile…

The 'Macbeth' quotation had stuck the night Hermione had cajoled him to go to a Muggle theatre one night, many years ago to see the 'Scottish Play'. He went, of course; he'd always want to be in her company, wherever it was. As he watched, transfixed, much passed him by, but he got the story perfectly and he would never stop asking himself questions after that evening spent in a darkened Muggle auditorium: what would he have done if offered the ultimate prize, like Macbeth? Was this like the vision he saw all those years ago in the Mirror of Erised? Was this what it felt like to be tempted by ambition? Power? Was this what temptation was?

What would he have done if the Witches had told him he'd be King?

_Or Minister of Magic_, he suddenly thought.

An old, hard memory stirred, somewhere at the back of his mind. A cold, high yet strong and masculine voice. _'I have looked into your heart – and it is mine.'_ Ron shifted in his seat, now finding his position uncomfortable and irritating.

Savagery? Did he know what he was willing to do, to make an end to savagery? _Should I wade no more_? Snape had, hadn't he? Hadn't he stopped and 'waded back' – reaching for forgiveness – from the world, by helping Dumbledore… and protecting a boy he hated for the sake of the boy's father and the love of the boy's mother?

Ron moved again in the seat and blew out a long sigh as the waitress brought him a fresh cup of coffee. He thanked her as she turned away, stirring the drink slowly, making sure the sugar was well-dissolved. Another little smile tweaked his lips. Sugar? Temptation? Hermione would disapprove!

What an irony, he suddenly pondered heavily. Savagery: he would always be sick of it – but it had been his life now for so long. Could he carry on? Could he see this all to an end? Deal with the savagery?

Deal with Fothergill?

He relaxed back further into his seat, dismissing his previous thoughts and concentrating his mind on dissecting the intricacies of the meeting with Jimmy Abrahams and Harry, a meeting he'd left just forty minutes before.

He knew he'd got an awful lot to ponder before he reached Birmingham. _'The darksome statesman hung with weights and woes'._ Yes, indeed – an awful lot. More than he wanted.

'Well, Ronald Weasley,' he muttered to himself, 'this darksome statesman had better get pondering. Concentrate, Red Wolf – concentrate.' With that he chuckled softly to himself, closed his eyes, and let the day's memories crowd in and line up for analysis.

The train rushed on.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: Train Journeys.**

The train rushed north.

Ron deliberately hovered over a choice of thoughts in his mind. No random selection today. Pick them carefully from his meeting with Jimmy and Harry and pull them apart.

As they began to slow into the first stop at Watford, he put his mind back in time.

_Ron remembered pulling himself together very quickly after his outburst over the Manchester Raid. He'd apologised to Harry and Jimmy._

_Abrahams was having none of it. Glaring at Ron over the table, the smooth demeanour had gone completely. His face had taken on an almost feral guise as he spat Ron's words back at him._

'_Don't you fucking dare!' he'd said, pinning Ron to his seat with a baleful look. 'I'd have done the same, Ron. To be taunted like that! I was mere moments away from attacking him myself! For Merlin's sake, you want to blame someone, then blame Fothergill…' he trailed off. He looked at both the men opposite, in turn, weighing his words. 'Blame all these people, who won't talk, who won't love, who won't listen… who won't care… who have no place for… others… in their world…' His speech trailed off again._

_There was a silence. No one said anything. They just sat._

'_You've become quite the philosopher in your old age, Jimmy,' said Harry, the slightest, faintest smile traced on his face._

_Abrahams looked down at the table then back up at Harry and Ron. He chuckled softly. _

'_Sod you, Potter.' He said, quietly, Ron joining in the light laughter which soon became a release, as all three were laughing out loud. This may have only lasted seconds but Ron, looking back in his mind, relished the camaraderie again – he'd not known this with Jimmy and Harry for years now. _

_It was good._

_Euphoria never lasts. It must end. And so it did, as the laughter gradually stopped and the three men came back to themselves. And it was Ron who put them right back into the heart of the tension._

'_Okay, Jimmy. For your benefit and Harry's, I'll explain everything – within reason – now,' Ron said, suddenly serious. 'Some things will have to wait until this is all over: everything will be clear then… whatever the outcome,' he added soberly, almost to himself. Jimmy and Harry merely nodded._

'_I began the operation ten years ago. We started small so I could gain the support of the Minister, the Wizengamot and all the relevant departments and committees. It had been my dream when I became Chief Auror to magically dominate our major cities, so often lost to Death Eater activity. This was agreed. Small scale but regular sweeps, of all our major cities, but the three greatest mainly – London, Manchester and Birmingham. Rees was inaccurate in one point – the major expenditure really came in the second year; I had to win some support first by getting results: which we did.' He paused, toying with his coffee cup. 'More coffee?' The others said no. Ron called for another cup, materialising in front of him, to which he added sugar and milk and stirred quickly. He looked at both of them._

'_No. I know what you're thinking: was I after Fothergill then. The answer is no – or at the most, only possibly. After the explosion that killed Adam and Francesca, Ratchet checked the site carefully. He believed that no one could have survived that attack and all the combined magic we produced in that fight – there was a lot of rage, after all…' He stopped for a second or two and took a deep breath. 'Collins' team confirmed the same: no one not already accounted for could survive that. Fothergill, Adam and Francesca were definitely dead. We were lucky to be alive and the two or three surviving Death Eaters we'd taken on were so mentally damaged that they're still in the Secure Wing of St Mungo's even to this day. I've had them tested every six weeks or so ever since I became Chief Auror but with no luck. They're in the same state as Lockhart or the Longbottoms. So it seemed that Fothergill had escaped us again.' Ron leaned back and looked at the ceiling. 'Only this time, he had to die to do it.' _

_He now pointed to Jimmy. 'You and I would've said no more but for what happened the next day. Part of the team Collins had sent in caught some of the remaining Death Eaters still hiding out in that part of the City. We were both told to go support. We were really in no shape to help but we'd both refused to come out of the front line; anyway, there'd been so many casualties, most of us were walking-wounded! Whilst we were there some of the Death Eaters waiting for transportation to Azkaban tried to escape. We didn't see the main incident, we were too late. One of the Aurors, a ranker called Thompson had been hit badly, his memory affected. Jimmy and I were put on memory retrieval duty; usual thing, check his last thoughts from before the incident for anything important that might have been missed before St Mungo's took a look at him. Standard procedure and junior as we were, we were quite capable of doing it. It was the junior bit that would be our undoing later.' _

Ron remembered the look on Abrahams' face: bitter, furious, determined. The countryside seemed to flit by the train's window like a lost memory itself, fleeting and blurred.

_Ron looked at Harry. 'We managed to untangle some of the charms affecting Thompson. Some proved too difficult. However, we clearly saw two of our Aurors try to help the Death Eaters to escape. Thompson had been guarding them. It was him who got stunned and obliviated. They were in such a hurry the charm didn't quite stick, just with the stunning enough to cause some serious potential memory damage. But Jimmy and I saw what we saw. It was the merest glimpse but I know we saw it. The charm had affected the Aurors' forms – we knew they had to be Aurors because we'd tested those in the memory with an authenticity charm – no disguise. Aurors were trying to help Death Eaters escape – but why, we couldn't for the life of us work out: unless it was simple treachery or they were spies? It was the next part that stopped us both dead. Some kind of confusion had occurred; I'm not sure. I know they'd not got long to release any prisoners because after the memory faded we know reinforcements arrived and the Death Eaters were rearrested. But in the confusion, the remasking charms had to be worked, hadn't they, to hide the Death Eaters' identities. One of them turned slightly to Thompson – whose viewpoint was from the ground and he was about to be obliviated. It was Fothergill, looking like shit, I'm very pleased to say with various cuts and bruises and one hell of a lot of grime and dirt which I presume can only have come from the explosion at the back of the Art Gallery. He turned for only a second or two but we'd know that bastard anywhere.' Ron growled out. Then the memory faded.' _

_Ron deliberately halted his account here. He wanted Harry to get the significance of what came next. 'We checked with the local quarter-master – his records said fourteen prisoners to transport. At least one had escaped, we were sure.'_

'_Jimmy and I took this to Collins immediately. We didn't even wait for Ratchet's say-so. Perhaps we were stupid and naïve but God, we'd just witnessed major corruption and collusion with the enemy by two of our own and the escape of a by-then notorious Death Eater, one William Aloysius Fothergill. What did they expect us to do? Maybe we were in shock? Collins was in the Command Tent at Platt's Fields. Everything was still chaos. He was not pleased to see us but agreed to look at the memory; said there might be something there and it would be investigated. It was then I committed my second blunder of that whole sad, sorry affair. I demanded he do something immediately.'_

'_Oh, be fair!' interjected Abrahams. 'I was shouting at him as hard as you. That's why we found ourselves on a charge and arrested in about two minutes! Heat of the moment, Ron!'_

_Ron smiled ruefully. 'Anyway, to cut a long story short, we were released the next day. When we asked about Thompson and the escape, we were told: what escape?' Ron looked back hard at the table before catching Abrahams' eye. 'That was the beginning of the end for you, wasn't it? Deep down, you knew something was wrong? From that day, it was just time before you left the Aurors.' Abrahams didn't reply. He just returned Ron's look, smiling sadly._

'_What happened next?' asked Harry._

'_Well, we tried immediately to get back in there and find out what had happened. But the City Centre was closed off and our unit was told to move out. We were on our way back to London. Daily Prophet proclaiming a great victory, Collins hero of the hour – what a load of crap! We'd nearly had the arse-kicking of the century. But, you know, Harry: none of that mattered. Thompson had seen what he'd seen. And so had we.'_

'_When we both got back to London, we planned our next steps. There was no way we were going to let this go: no way!' Ron repeated grimly, with Abrahams nodding slowly. 'We realised our mistake with Collins and went to see him to request we could investigate further. Apologies, pleading for time and resources, being adamant it was Fothergill – meant nothing. God, being Ron Weasley, just for a change, meant nothing,' added Ron, smirking grimly. 'They'd had the memory looked at, nothing major or unexpected – the Auror figures were actually Death Eaters in disguise and all the prisoners were accounted for.' _

_Here Abrahams snorted derisively. 'Cheeky shits said it was an easy mistake for junior ranks to make!'_

_Ron broke in. 'Thompson was recovering in St Mungo's but there'd be permanent damage to those memories for him – they couldn't be relied upon. Collins said he was going to reprimand Ratchet for detailing Aurors so junior to do memory retrieval. We were told to leave the matter alone.' At this point, both Ron and Abrahams began to laugh quietly to each other._

'_Of course, we didn't.' said Ron. 'It was utter, utter bullshit – but some high-up, powerful people were buying it.'_

'_Why do you think?' interrupted Harry._

'_God knows,' sighed Ron. 'Relief that someone like Fothergill was dead? One less thing to do something about? Who knows! We managed to interview Thompson. He'd returned to duty but remembered nothing of it. Then he was killed a year later.'_

'_I remember,' said Harry. 'I had to do the post-report; suspected Death Eater reprisal attack, wasn't it?' Abrahams stayed silent._

'_Possibly,' said Ron carefully. 'Certainly convenient, considering the coincidence of the original memory phial going missing, with the reports that both Jimmy and I made to Ratchet at Manchester and later to Collins when we were back at the Ministry – and then when I sneaked a look one day at the holding records for that day, guess what I found? Thirteen prisoners, not fourteen – all accounted for. It had all been changed.'_

'_There is a spy? Spies? We've been infiltrated again?' said Harry now looking deeply concerned._

'_Was,' said Ron. 'Was. I think. Fothergill's trail was covered. He was gone and we'd lost him again. It was hopeless. No evidence and some bastard holding all the good cards.'_

'_Crap! Why didn't you say something?' pleaded Harry._

'_God, Harry!' said Abrahams. 'How could we? I know you and Hermione would've believed us but … well, it all became too much. Ron couldn't get anywhere with the investigation. You can imagine how stressful it was, we had to be so careful as soon as we realised something was wrong.' He looked straight at Harry now. 'Also… don't be angry. It was like fifth year all over again when Ron said about him being made prefect because Dumbledore felt you had enough to deal with. You were still the 'poster boy'. We felt it wasn't fair to lumber you with this.' He looked to Ron for support who nodded simply, once. 'It was our problem. We had to deal with it. Except I couldn't deal with it in the end – and left. The rest, as Muggles say, is history.'_

_Harry sat back, shaking his head, trying – and failing – to hide his disappointment. Ron jumped into the hiatus in the discussion._

'_That's when I got the idea for 'Beachcomber'. I decided I didn't care how long it took – I'd get Fothergill. To echo Jimmy, the rest is history. Actually, that isn't completely true. As I said before, I was out to begin slowly as Chief Auror and control the major cities first, control the crime, make them sweat – but always at the back of my mind, taunting me – was Fothergill.' He stopped again. Ron remembered savouring this moment. 'And then the bastard obliged me.'_

'_How do mean?' asked Abrahams._

'_Come on, Jimmy!' laughed Ron, but it was mirthless. 'When those bastards targeted our families in 2009? The kidnap threats? The various enhancements that have been found when we've encountered Death Eater spell work? The various 'front' companies, promoting prototype charms – only to be revealed as money-makers for criminal activity? It all smacks of Fothergill. And then there were the 'sightings' – all around Cheshire and Manchester – never completely verified but all possible. And after all that, what better way than hide in 'plain sight' as Muggles say? Our sources confirmed no sightings abroad. Nothing. But something was happening in Manchester. I put myself in his head, yes? Think like him. What would I do? Why, stay in Manchester. The last place they'd think of looking.' He paused again to sum up. 'And now thanks to anti-apparation, I know we've got the bastard trapped there… but… 'Beachcomber' is about more than stopping him, after all. It's taken ten years of planning and preparation but we're ready and poised to capture his entire operation. We know he's using objects of cultural significance – antiques, art works, and treasures for some particular purpose – making money certainly but there's something else, I know it!' Ron leaned forward eagerly, warming to his topic. 'That's why we allowed the export licences. It's not state-sponsored corruption! We're allowing the bastard to operate. We're buying ourselves time to find out what exactly he's trying to do. I remember you told me, Jimmy, how Voldemort had forbid Fothergill from showing his brilliance at school so it didn't arouse suspicions. He couldn't compete for the top marks with the likes of Ravenclaw or Hermione in examinations. Nothing at all. And of course, it made sense, didn't it? Why bring the genius of this young man to the attention of the likes of Dumbledore and McGonagall? No, his abilities were to be harnessed to needs of the Death Eaters.' Ron remembered now this moment when the next thought had struck him. 'And of course, he did the same – because we now can guess he's employed Jacob Parry – a complete shit of a man, but a genius of a potion-maker.'_

_Ron had nearly finished. He just had one last major point to add and he needed them to understand._

'_No, they are allowed to operate – we could get them on smuggling and theft alone, to the amount of millions – but we're convinced he's planned something extra.' He looked between the other two men. 'This is Fothergill. There's always something else with this man – and that's what I really want.'_

Ron remembered pausing and now looking over to Abrahams.

_I'm looking at you, now, Jimmy, and I am guessing you wanted the initial information about Hermione – to perhaps use in … how can I put this? Delicate discussions with the Chief Auror when things got a bit difficult for you in South London? Perhaps I'd be influenced by rumours of my wife's innumerable love affairs?' Ron stared pointedly at Abrahams. 'Complete tosh, as I now discover.'_

Here, Ron remembered feeling distinctly awkward, blushing slightly. He was grateful when Harry and Jimmy said nothing, at least nothing immediately…

'_Bloody hell! Are you accusing me of blackmail!?' spluttered Abrahams._

_Ron smiled. 'I think a year ago – yes, you were looking for an angle on you old friend, the Chief Auror. Yes, with hindsight, I am! Let's face it, Jimmy – you and I have been on opposing sides now for over a decade, with your various – ' Ron politely coughed, '- businesses bringing in a fortune somewhere in the millions – yes?'_

'_Bugger off, Ron!' retorted Abrahams. 'That's rich coming from you – and don't you bloody start, Potter!' _Ron remembered Abrahams had just reacted to Harry's sceptical look_. 'Between the two of you, and the rest of the Weasleys, since the war, your combined families must be worth a cool five or six million!? I read the 'Rich Lists' in Witch Weekly! What with all the grateful donations after the war that Kinglsey insisted you keep! The runaway successes of Weasley Wheezes here and in Europe – and don't you and Harry own a third each with George? So, don't even –' Ron interrupted him, laughing._

'_Point taken, Jimmy. Anyway, you've got a huge amount to lose – but no, the Fothergill part's convinced me you are now NOT about to try and blackmail me. You now know why I'm doing this. It isn't just revenge, understand? It isn't just the threats to my family? They began again a year ago.' Harry sat up. 'No, Harry; I dealt with it, okay? We're covered. Why say and panic everyone? Fothergill trying to warn me off?' He looked at both of them. 'Hermione's even worked that one out, now. We've seen that one in the surveillance today. No, it's you now, Jimmy. You left the Aurors in disgust. I remember. I nearly joined you.'_

Ron remembered how both Harry and Abrahams seemed a little lost as to what to say.

'_As we've been talking and you've been showing me information on Hermione and I've come clean about certain… operations I've underway, I still don't know what you want. Okay, so now let's come to it. I understand I think, the personal connection for you and me and what I'm doing with 'Beachcomber'. I think I understand why you piqued my interest with Hermione's … activities – but what do YOU want, Jimmy?' _

Ron remembered how very hard he'd felt he'd been looking at Jimmy. Harry waited, saying nothing. Ron remembered thinking he knew the 'game' they'd played was nearly over.

Ron thought back to Abrahams saying nothing – which he thought very odd.

'_Okay,' said Ron. 'Let me try a different question. You said you'd known for a year. Originally, it seemed you'd mean, Hermione talking to various officials and me being a jealous prat – and maybe Harry and me would think, 'the little bastard's trying to blackmail us' – but, no – you'd mentioned Manchester and Birmingham and The Parish. You were always great at educated guessing. You'd remembered I'd had the theory of where he, Fothergill, would be hiding out – Manchester was really the clincher for me. You'd guess, alright! How did you know for a year?'_

'_I can't tell you.'_

Ron shifted in the train seat and thought back. He'd seemed slightly nonplussed for a moment or two and looked at Harry to gauge his reaction.

'_Can't – or won't?' said Harry. _Ron had realised his own impatience was growing just as he was sensing Harry's latent impatience beginning to surface again. They were close now to Jimmy giving them the truth.

'_Can't.' said Abrahams calmly. 'Next question.'_

'_Can't? Can't because someone – or something is stopping you?' guessed Ron._

'_Correct,' said Abrahams. 'On several counts.'_

'_How? Why?' ventured Harry._

'_Because I've been silence-jinxed by them, quite deliberately and with my full agreement. Not even Veritaserum can work on me.' He looked at Harry. 'And, in answer, to your second question, so only Ron can be told what is needed to be known.'_

'_Me? Why me?' asked Ron, looking at Abrahams in a very perceptive manner. 'Wait. Can you tell me the identity of this someone?' _

'_Sort of. I can't give you the name but some details are possible. She's very well-known to you and Harry, but you in particular, Ron. She's based in Birmingham, in the Midlands but she has strong links to the North.'_

Ron remembered the relief he felt at guessing the identity but also how infuriated he was with the 'someone': surely they could be trusted!?

'_Dorothy.' Ron sat back. Abrahams merely nodded. ''She allowed you to nod!? How kind of her,' Ron said with heavy sarcasm. Abrahams smiled._

'_Alright,' said Harry. 'How do you think Hermione found out?'_

_Abrahams merely smiled._

'_Dorothy again? Can't?'' asked Ron. Jimmy laughed and nodded. 'She's frightened of what? Spies? Being compromised?' Now, Jimmy nodded._

Ron remembered now picking up on what Jimmy was hinting at: a journey. Ron was beginning to feel pissed off…

'_The jinxes are there to prevent you divulging too much because she wants to tell me, herself? In person?' Ron suggested. Jimmy smiled again, nodding in answer to each rhetorical question. Abrahams reached into his suit jacket and pulled a small paper wallet from an inside pocket. He pushed this over the table to Ron. _

Ron remembered thinking when Harry had told him of Jimmy's request the previous night that it would be some kind of set-up; there was no way, with Jimmy Abrahams' involvement, it would be anything else. But Jimmy knew something – something vital: that was obvious. He'd had no choice but to accept.

_Ron picked up the wallet and opened it. He sighed and glanced over at Harry, who'd been busy studying the distinctive logo on the front._

'_Rail tickets?' proposed Harry, trying to not to laugh. Ron turned back to the other man whose trademark smirk was back. Abrahams spoke first._

'_This one I can answer. She thought you'd be pissed off and impatient at the need to be so secretive and thought a – and I quote – 'nice train ride, First Class, of course will give him time to calm down and think.' She says what she has to tell you can only be done in person – today.'_

'_She's that worried about security?' interrupted Harry. 'This meeting, via me and you… was really for Ron's benefit?'_

'_Yes. She wants you involved, Harry - but it's all down to Ron now, as Chief Auror. You need to leave now, Ron. She needs to see you this afternoon. Usual place.'_

Ron's mind snapped back to the present. The train was just slowing as it reached its next stop. The now not-so modern town of Milton Keynes. The platform pulled into view outside of the carriages' window, Muggles gently jostling and pushing in that quaint way the British have when struggling to be polite as they try to get somewhere! Would have to apparate next time, thought Ron.

Suddenly, his mind was in Booth Four again. Some last comments …

'_Speaking of security, how do I know this is the Deen? How do I –' began Ron, but Abrahams had tapped the tickets. The Deen's secret security symbol, visible only to Ron, flashed for a second then was gone. _

_As the meeting broke up, Ron stopped Harry and Jimmy with his original question. _

'_What do you want, Jimmy?'_

'_Oh, this one I can answer, Ron,' answered Abrahams, almost blithely. It seemed 'The Ghost' was back. 'I want to kill him.' Harry and Ron stopped dead where they were; leaving Booth Four had just been forgotten._

'_Kill? Kill him?' repeated Ron._

'_Fothergill?' Harry looked very sober._

'_Oh yes, Harry. Kill him. That's what I want.'_

Ron thought back to that moment. Something in his mind warned him this was so, so important_. _The kind of thing on which history swings and changes in time's wind.

_In his memory, Ron had turned now fully back to Jimmy who'd not yet risen from the table. He'd looked down solemnly at his erstwhile friend and sometime opponent. _

'_Listen very carefully, Jimmy. I'm going to say this only once. We proceed as we've agreed. Harry will inform Neville and a watch will be placed on the objects and painting at Hogwarts. You and your organisation will assist us at The Parish; I will speak at some point today to John McKinnon and he'll liaise with you. There'll be no killing, if it can be helped.' He paused again. 'I hate him, in a way, as much as you. He's going to go to Azkaban for the rest of his life. That's all. That's the plan.' Ron spoke quietly with complete finality. 'If you've got a problem with that, then the plan's off.'_

'_That's fine with me, Ron,' returned Abrahams, hands outstretched, palms upwards in a conciliatory gesture –but he hadn't quite finished. 'See what you think when you've been to Birmingham.'_

Looking back, usually, Ron would have thought this was just typical Abrahams: a parting shot. But the sadness in his voice and the look in his eyes now made him wonder.

'_Take care, Jimmy; stick to the plan.' said Harry, reaching over the table and shaking the other man's hand. 'I'll be in touch with both of you later today. I'll contact Neville straightaway.' He reached out and hugged his brother-in-law, whispering so only he heard. 'Take care, Ron. Be careful.' He pulled back and they looked into the other's eyes. Ron could only nod. Harry turned on the spot and was gone._

I will, Harry. I promise, he thought, as the train made its way to Birmingham. Ron thought back to him and Abrahams, leaving together, through one of the quieter side entrances. The noise and bustle of London crowding in, Ron had waved a quick Muffliato and concealment charm to hide them and cover their farewells, as they stood facing each other.

'_I meant it, Jimmy. He's going to Azkaban. Understand? If you try and do anyth –' Abrahams interrupted him._

'_Have you seen Le Monde Magical this week, Ron?'_

This was strange. The change of topic completely threw him. What? Again, Ron focused in on this thought.

'_I said, have you seen –'_

'_Yes, I bloody well heard you. What the hell's that got to do with –'_

Ron thought back. Why had he lied here? Of course he'd seen the bloody paper: if you're in charge of Foreign Relations, you had to read everything.

And he knew Jimmy would know he'd read everything.

'_You know I like to keep up-to-date with everything. Especially something that might affect business in Europe?' He paused. Ron remembered they seemed to be staring each other out. 'Budapest? Opened the case again? Surprised The Prophet has had nothing to say yet… according to Le Monde, Harry'll be called next week…' He'd stopped but kept eye contact with the taller man._

_Ron had said nothing – he just blandly look back at Abrahams._

'_Bit of a coincidence that, eh? Everything we've discussed?' Abrahams waited. Ron still said nothing. 'All this build-up? Fothergill?' Again he waited. 'Elections for the post of great 'Bullshitter-in-Chief', the post of Minister itself – just next year…' He deliberately trailed off. Ron interrupted him before he could continue._

'_Your point, Jimmy?' said Ron bluntly._

'_Oh, nothing, old mate: nothing… really.' said Abrahams and clapped Ron on the arm in farewell. 'Just… just watch your back, yeh? Just watch your back.' He smiled once, clapped him on the arm again and turned away._

Ron remembered feeling somehow deeply, deeply dissatisfied with this. What else had he wanted from the man? After all, they'd shared so much.

_He'd called out to him. Abrahams stopped and looked back._

'_What, Ron? Shouldn't you be catching a train?'_

'_Stick to the plan, Jimmy.'_

_Jimmy smiled and turned back to walk away again. 'Of course, Ron,' he'd called out. 'Of course.' Ron watched his figure mix then disappear into the milling mass of pedestrians. _

Ron came out of his thoughts as the Muggle train guard announced their arrival in, 'Rugby, ladies and gentlemen. Rugby is our next stop. Please take care alighting from the train and make sure you have all your belongings with you. Thank you.'

Jimmy had told him he'd stick to the plan. Ron had heard him. So had Harry.

As the train pulled away from Rugby, Ron couldn't hide the little voice in his mind: he'll stick to the plan, won't he? Of course, he will, Ron – of course, he will. The voice sounded so plausible and believable. He won't try and kill Fothergill if he gets a chance.

As the train picked up speed, Ron couldn't help thinking that he didn't believe a word of it. Kill Fothergill? And what was worse, if he had a choice, would he stop Jimmy – or help him?

The train rushed north.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Coffee.**

What would it be like to show mercy?

He'd been thinking about that when the waitress asked him if he'd want another coffee.

Bloody hell! That must the seventh or eighth of the day and he was – where?

'We're about twenty minutes from Birmingham, sir; should be arriving there about 2pm. On time.' She smiled down at him. 'Okay? Coffee?'

He thanked her as she placed the steaming drink on his passenger table and moved on to the next customer.

If he'd had so much bloody coffee, why didn't he feel more awake? Knackered, was the term. In damn good shape for a man near fifty; needed to be for the job, early morning visits to the gym, watched his diet (apart from the coffee) … but …

Very, very simple answer: too much revelation? Had Jimmy's news really shook him that much?

No.

Things changed, moved on; there were always some core things you had to cling to, should cling to - but everything else was in constant flux. That was just what life was like, he mused.

He'd certainly learnt that over twenty-odd years of working for the Ministry.

He blinked a few times rapidly, then deliberately closed and opened his eyes several more times, squinting out at the countryside and roads flying past his window. He looked carefully again. Already the fields were starting to give way to more and more concrete and brick – change again - and clear signs of Britain's second city. Well, second, if you didn't count Manchester.

But he'd always count Manchester…

Dark back streets. Screams. explosions; such cold, heavy rain – it was like the entire Irish Sea was being poured upon your head – and the faces of two very dear, very frightened friends – trying so desperately to be brave - pale, large-eyed, open-mouthed and gasping - captive and helpless.

Shaking his mind free of sudden, unbidden images; of sounds, smells, sensations; of old, hard memories, he felt a deep, sudden grip of pain, somewhere in his guts. He moved to ease the discomfort. Could you actually feel physical discomfort in response to – his mind seemed to stutter over the question – to unanswerable grief?

_Yes, came the quiet answer. Remember how you felt when Percy deserted the family for a time? Remember when you left during the Horcrux Hunt? _

_Remember Fred. _

He slowly closed his eye lids and held them firmly shut. He breathed slowly – in, out, in, out.

Then the moth appeared in his thoughts, as if from nowhere. He hadn't thought of it for a while. Was it still there? In some kind of hibernation? He hoped so. When this is all over, he said to himself, I will go look.

Gradually, slowly, he opened both eyes and looked out of the window. Outside, seemingly flying past as if in a hurry to be always somewhere else, the world changed. Like Manchester, he'd come to love Birmingham. In fact, he'd quickly appreciated city life and the cityscape but today… today, something just seemed wrong. Buildings seemed to grow taller and the spaces seemed to be crowded in, all things bunching up, and cars suddenly to multiply like flies: everything seemed ravenous for life and energy – the life and energy given off by a great city, on a busy weekday.

Ron was overcome with a wave of nostalgia, a wave of longing for green fields and hills and orchards. For The Burrow.

And for Hermione's arms.

His Muggle phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He pulled it out, looking at the name on the screen: John McKinnon.

'Hello, John.' He spoke quietly. 'We're secure: go ahead. Where are you?'

'Afternoon, sir. At The Parish. Latest report. Two of them have surfaced. They've just booked into The Parish.'

'Which two?'

'Herbert and Jones. We've got them under surveillance as of now.'

'Excellent. Did you get my message about Mr Abrahams?'

'Yes. I'm about to meet him in ten minutes.'

'I've decided to trust him, John. He could be extremely useful to us over the next few days till the operation is concluded.' Ron paused. 'He does have a … vested interest in the successful completion of everything, John and I've agreed a plan with him. That's the outline I've sent you.' He paused again. 'However, I want you to use your discretion and maintain a clear professional distance. Be polite but firm with any requests or working relations that are detrimental to our success. He's been told to stick to the agreed plan. We are in charge, John. As I said, I trust him – but there are other factors that might come to play.'

Ron paused again. 'Any doubts, John, close him out of the operation immediately. He's obstructive in any way or goes back on the agreement once we are properly committed, arrest him and any of his key staff if they pose a threat. Understand? Then refer it to me at the earliest opportunity.' He drew a breath. 'Nothing stops this. Otherwise, it's just sit and wait. Keep me informed. I'll let you know when I'm done in Birmingham.'

'Thank you, sir; that's very clear and I'll be on my guard with Mr Abrahams.'

Ron could have ended the call there but he felt the need to say more.

'No, thank you, John. We wouldn't be where we are without your hard work and diligence along the way. I shan't forget it.' He ended the call. He hoped McKinnon would understand that. He really was grateful.

The train, at last, was pulling into the grand complex that was Birmingham New Street Train Station. Acres of glass, gleaming steel and an expansive concourse opened up to his view as the train pulled slowly into the platforms. He was just settling back into his chair for one last time before arrival, when his phone buzzed again, quietly and seemingly persistently.

It wasn't a call. A text message.

From Hermione.

He looked at the screen, debating whether or not to open the message. Could he get away with deliberately pretending he'd missed it or even just ignoring it? Damn. Probably not. Would be followed by a string of others, asking why the delay and was he ignoring her!

He pressed the screen.

_Where are you? Office says you're out in meetings? Hope all okay? What time are you home tonight? I LOVE YOU. H_

He closed the message.

He'd text her later. In a while.

First things first. A meeting. In Birmingham. With 'The Deen'. With Dorothy.

Then he'd think about what time he'd be home.

Not too long now and hopefully things would be a lot clearer to him than he was currently feeling they were. A lot clearer.

He hoped.

He finished the last of his coffee, standing up as he pulled his coat on. He made his way to the exit and alighted from the train.

As he began walking down the platform, Hermione's mind exercises began, helping him calm himself and focus as he walked briskly to the main exit. One of the quotations from Dryden struck him as appropriate.

_The foes come: Charge, charge, tis too late to retreat._

Bloody hell. That one _was_ appropriate.

_The foes come…_

So, here he was, walking up the busy thoroughfare of New Street, one of Birmingham's main shopping streets, towards his destination and yes, the foes do indeed come. Or at least, _somebody _comes, thought Ron.

Something was wrong.

He'd first been possibly alerted when he'd stopped a little earlier to pick up another coffee - a prop was always good to help blend in – and his Auror instincts had become immediately heightened. Not simply the feeling of being watched. The intense feeling of someone scrutinising you but at the same time trying not to alert you to anything odd or untoward. Understanding it only came with great experience and practice. That and a certain paranoia, Ron thought grimly.

Pausing for a second to pretend to look in a shop window at a display of cookery ware, he used the darkened reflection to check if the man on the opposite side of New Street, shown in the large, plate glass, was checking him out – or not.

Yes. The man was very good but it was very clear to Ron. Not just that he was being followed. But how many others? And what were their intentions?

Yes, indeed. _The foes come._ He stayed perfectly still, watching the reflection.

_Well_, Ron thought to himself, as he let his wand slide down from the hidden holster, secreted up his right arm suit sleeve, taking a quick slurp from the takeaway coffee in his left hand and then letting a small, rather grim smile play, very lightly, on his lips: _charge - it's too late to retreat._

Years too late.


End file.
